And if there was a plan made (then we forgot about it)
by ZBBZL
Summary: He had been sent to kill her - he made a different call. The rest is history, only known by the two of them. (Clint/Natasha. Pre-Avengers.)
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: And if there was a plan made (then we forgot about it)  
**Rated**: T  
**Pairing**: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanoff  
**Timeline**: set in the MCU, before _The Avengers_, and maybe after at some point  
**Status**: In progress

**A/N**: It speaks highly of the chemistry between the characters that Natasha and Clint were my favorite thing in The Avengers. There's history between these two, and I just had to give it a try. I own nothing except my love for them and my imagination. Hope you enjoy. Let me know what you think. :)

Title from Dawn Golden's _All I Want_.

* * *

Fury had warned him; she was highly trained, skilled and lethal – Coulson had added that she was just as _beautiful_ with a small, almost sad smile. What no one had told Clint was that the woman who had killed more people than he could remember from both sides was so _young_.

He'd seen pictures of her before, sure, because Black Widow was on the Most Wanted wall at S.H.I.E.L.D.'s HQ, and he could easily understand why men fell to their knees for her. With her slender frame, porcelain skin, green eyes, plump lips and scarlet hair, she was _definitely_ beautiful. He'd seen her in action, knew that her beauty was not her weapon of choice but could be just as deadly; but right now, as she was trapped with nowhere to go and at his mercy, she just looked like a child, and really, wasn't she _still_ one? She couldn't be older than twenty-one or twenty-two.

And maybe it was because she's gorgeous – Clint knew already that it was going to be what people at S.H.I.E.L.D. would whisper behind his back – or because she looked like she had seen and heard and done too much in her young years, that he lowered his bow. He couldn't do it; couldn't shoot an arrow through her when she was staring right back at him, still and unafraid, simply waiting for him to do it. For the briefest second, Clint almost believed she wanted him to, wanted him to put an end to this, to the race and chase her life had become when she was just a teen. She wasn't scared, nor did she really fight him, no – it seemed almost too easy, how he'd found her whereabouts and followed her, and a little voice inside him kept repeating that it _had_ to be a trap.

But her eyes told him another completely different story.

She was tired. She was lonely. She killed because it was what she was told to do, because no matter how bad the Red Room was, it was the only home she'd ever known. And it's that look in her eyes, more than anything else that pushed Clint to disobey his orders. Maybe he was being a fool, maybe she was playing him like she'd played many before and this was going to end up with a knife to his throat or a bullet through his head before he could see it coming – _maybe_. But he just couldn't kill a woman who looked like she didn't care about whether or not she lived, someone who believed and who had been told that she was an asset, true, but still expandable in the grand scheme of things. He just couldn't.

Clint lowered his bow, his grip still tight around it, but the strong set of his jaw and his gaze relaxed a bit, almost softening as he spoke. "They say you're the best they've got," he said simply, as if it was totally normal for them to exchange civilities and compliments.

Her green eyes widened in surprise, the first slip in her perfectly rehearsed mask. It only lasted a second before she schooled her features, and a seductive smile crept up on her lips. "I don't know what they say about you, because I have no idea who you are," she replied with a little shrug.

"Fame is only for some chosen ones," Clint shrugged easily, maybe _too_ _easily_. Here he was, chatting with an international assassin, and it didn't feel any different than talking with Coulson or Hill. He shook his head lightly, as if suddenly remembering something, and he extended his hand to her, switching his bow to his left hand. "Clint Barton. S.H.I.E.L.D.," he said.

She looked at his hand, and he followed her gaze, waiting. It was probably the stupidest thing he'd ever done, offering his hand to the person he had been sent to kill, but his gut was telling him that it was the right thing to do. He didn't join S.H.I.E.L.D. to be an assassin, even if it was basically the job description; killing a woman who was still a girl wasn't right. He looked up at her, saw the crease between her brows as she contemplated all of her options, from shaking his hand to throwing a blade at him, and finally, after a minute, he felt her hand in his.

She had baby skin, Clint decided; soft skin and perfectly manicured hands, a rough contrast to his calloused ones. "And…_you are_…?" he asked, because he couldn't keep referring to her as Black Widow as if it was a name and a title all at once.

Her smile grew bigger, revealing a row of pearly whites, but it didn't reach her eyes. Clint wondered for a second if it ever did, before chasing the thought away because why was he even thinking about her smile. "Whoever you want me to be," she said with that voice, that siren call that drove men mad for her, but it didn't work this time, not now that Clint had caught a glimpse, however small, of the woman behind the assassin.

He released her hand, and gestured for her to walk with him as he turned to leave, his eyes still trained on her. "Well, how about wanting you to follow me back to S.H.I.E.L.D.?" he suggested.

"So they can put me behind bars or torture me for secrets?" she said, her eyes turning dark as they narrowed at him. "I'd rather you kill me, if you don't mind."

He almost told her that he'd never let that happen then, or that the methods she was used to weren't the ones that S.H.I.E.L.D. worked with, but Clint realized in that moment that he couldn't guarantee her anything. He was asking her a lot there; to follow him into the lion's den when she had no reason to trust him, when he could be playing her because their lives were nothing but a game of chess where others more powerful were using them as pawns. "I was thinking of bringing you with me, as an agent," he added, knowing he should have started with that.

She laughed, then. Not a seductive, feminine giggle meant to be endearing and cute, but a real laughter. "Your boss will _so_ not agree with that. Ever."

"Who said _I_ wasn't the boss?" Clint asked in faux-hurt, raising his eyebrows at her.

"I'm the best, remember?" she said playfully, and Clint thought she looked genuinely amused by the situation. "I know your boss. You're not the first agent he sent out for me. But I bet he never expected any of you to come up with this ridiculous idea."

Clint grinned. It wasn't something that came easily for him, but for some reason, the world's deadliest assassin was making him smile and it was dangerous. Maybe it was the reason why Fury had briefed him along with Coulson; to make sure that he knew what he was getting into, that he knew his target inside out so he could counter her moves. But there was something that her file didn't say: she was an assassin, true, but she was also a woman, a person, and Clint felt a pull towards her that he'd never felt before. It wasn't because she was gorgeous – even if it _did_ help – but because they were more alike than anybody could have expected. He remembered being wary of Coulson when the man had come to him to recruit him; he remembered not wanting to be part of a team, preferring working alone, having no one to care about and no one caring about him. It was easier this way, going through the motions, killing and risking his life, losing fellow agents, slipping into a persona and shedding the alias at the end of an assignment before becoming another one, over and over again.

Wasn't it exactly what _she_ was doing, too?

Clint stopped in his tracks, realizing they were still in the dark alley and hadn't walked that much. "Look, I can't guarantee you anything," he started, his tone low but serious. "But I know one thing: you're more valuable to us alive than dead. And I feel like you're the kind of person who can go through torture without blinking an eye, so there's no point doing that. Come with me. Become an agent. That's the only thing that makes sense."

She narrowed her eyes at him again, this time searching for a hint of dishonesty in his green eyes, but finding none. "You _really_ believe it's going to be that easy," she said more than she asked, disbelief in her tone. There was strictly no reason why he'd want to help her; and he had to either be naïve or stupid to think that S.H.I.E.L.D. would open its arms to the woman who had killed half a dozen of its agents. But he believed it anyway, and she couldn't figure what it said about him. "Why would I do that, anyway?" she asked. "Why would I betray my country?"

"Because it has betrayed _you_ before?" Clint suggested softly. It seemed to surprise her, so he continued, "I'm not gonna pretend that S.H.I.E.L.D. is this perfect land where the sky is always blue. But I can promise you that they would never do to you what the KGB did."

"You really believe that," she repeated, stunned.

"You already said that," he replied with a shrug. "And yes, I do. I know that they'd never take a kid from an orphanage and turn them into a killer and brainwash them into thinking that it's for their own good," he went on, watching her as she looked back at him without showing any reaction. He knew he was hitting a sensitive spot; Fury certainly had his secrets and he only revealed what he wanted, but this part of the story he'd shared with Clint and he knew deep down that she had to remember it. Remember being a kid, happy and carefree, even if it'd been so long ago. She had to know that the hand that fed her only did it because she was useful to them. She had to know that it was no way to live.

Clint didn't know why it was so important that she agreed and followed him, but it was. For some reason that he couldn't comprehend, he didn't want to kill her and knew he'd try his best to make Fury and Coulson see things the way he did.

Finally, after a moment, she nodded her head. "Okay," she just said. "How are we going to do this?" she asked. "You have an extraction plan, I hope?"

"No, no, this was a suicide mission. You're the best, remember?" he teased. "Of course I have an extraction plan," he added quickly. "But first of all, we need to go back to my apartment."

"Aren't you the gentleman now?" she scoffed, following him as he led her expertly through the dark streets with a light but firm hand at her back.

They reached an even darker street where stood an old building that suited him as much as it was a place where no one would expect _her_ to be. She'd been the Tsarina, the trophy wife wealthy and powerful men had walked with at their arm, a perfect Russian doll that would never take a step outside of her mansion – even the Red Room wouldn't look for her there.

Clint let her in, closing the door behind him without letting her out of his sight. "Alright," he called out to her as she looked around, taking in the dirty tapestry on the walls and the cheap furniture. "Weapons out," he said, walking to her.

Clint frisked her lightly, finding two knives in her garter beneath her dress, and another in her right boot. He examined her bracelets for a moment, fascinated by the cleverness of the weapon that discharged electrostatic bolts, and then found another small blade hidden in her watch, and a gun in her purse.

"You forgot one," she said, nodding at the front of her dress.

Clint gave her a grin. "No, I didn't," he said almost cockily, his eyes never leaving hers as his fingers slipped in her cleavage to reach the knife held by her bra. "Just wanted to check if you were playing me. I guess you're not."

"I could have killed you when you bent down to get the one in my boot," she stated calmly.

"But you didn't," Clint replied simply, putting the weapons inside the drawer of the small nightstand by the bed. He took off his jacket and threw it on a chair nearby, and then sat down on the bed to take off his shoes. She stood still in the middle of the room, watching him. "The bathroom's over there," he said, nodding at a door. "I'll need a couple days to get you a new passport, so you might as well make yourself at home." She made a noise, something between a chuckle and a grunt, and murmured something in Russian under her breath that Clint thought meant _stupid American dog_. He grinned. "You can sleep in one of my shirts if you want, and I'll get you new clothes when my contact brings us your passport."

She cocked an eyebrow at him, crossing her arms over her chest. "That sounds like one of your stupid American movies," she said.

"You've seen many movies where the hero takes pity on a poor girl and saves her life against his best judgment?" Clint teased as he got up and opened his bag, looking for a clean shirt for her.

She laughed, accepting the shirt from him without a word. "I've seen one where a man is sent to kill a woman, falls in love with her and betrays his country to save her life. I think he dies at the end," she added with a smile.

"They don't call you Black Widow for nothing," he replied easily. "How's your French?" he asked, changing the subject as he grabbed his phone and dialed a number.

"Probably better than yours," she said, going to the bathroom as she saw him put the phone to his ear.

He watched her, saw how she didn't lock the door – there's no window in the bathroom anyway, it wasn't like she could try to escape – and sat back on his bed, the exhaustion of the past few days starting to take their toll on him. At the fifth ring, a man answered. "_John? What a surprise_," the man greeted him.

"Haven't seen you in a while, Leo," Clint said. "How are the kids?"

"_Better than your fake wife, I suppose, John_," Leo replied. Coulson had introduced him to Leo under the name of John Carmichael the first time they met, and they had needed him to make them a new passport for another agent that had gone missing and who needed extraction. She had then posed as Mrs. Carmichael after they rescued her. "_What do you need this time?"_

"I need a new passport, for a woman. A French one."

"_Name?_"

"Alice Carmichael," Clint answered. He grabbed her purse, and found her ID card. "Born on May, 4th, 1982," he said, changing her birth date. "I'm sending you a picture," he said, snapping a shot of her picture in his S.H.I.E.L.D. file and sending it by text message. "Can you do something for her hair? I want it dark."

"_Alice, 1982, dark hair. Noted_," Leo said. "_I'll have it ready in four days_."

"I only have two days, Leo," Clint insisted. "And I need new clothes, and dye product. Usual meeting place?"

Leo grumbled, but agreed. "_Two days. Tell Phil he owes me_."

"He knows, Leo. He knows. Thank you," Clint said before hanging up. Clint then got up, and made to clean up the place a little bit. He heard the door open as he was making the bed.

"So, who am I?" she asked as she stood in the bathroom doorframe, only dressed in a white shirt of his, rubbing her hair with a towel.

"Alice Carmichael," Clint replied. "My wife. My second one, actually. I'm one of those guys."

"One of those guys?" she asked, cocking an eyebrow at him. "Is that supposed to mean that you're a ladies' man, or that you killed the first Mrs. Carmichael?"

Clint rolled his eyes, ignoring her. "We'll see the details of our marital bliss tomorrow, you should get some sleep. You can take the bed," he said, sitting at the kitchen table.

She frowned, then grinned. "You're still afraid I'll kill you in the middle of the night?" she teased as she sat on the bed, tucking her legs beneath her.

"Maybe a little," he admitted. "Although I'm not that easy to kill. Mostly, I need to call my boss and he'll probably yell at me until tomorrow morning, so one of us should at least get a decent night of sleep," he shrugged.

Her face softened, another slip in her mask. "Why are you doing this?" she asked in a low voice, her gaze on him not as fierce as it'd been before; just curious and intrigued. "What's in for you?"

Clint leant over, resting his elbows on the table and his chin upon the back of his hands. He gave her question a thought for a moment; he knew, deep down, that his actions didn't make any sense, and that he should have just followed his orders instead of making all of this so complicated. The question was, _why didn't he?_ Why couldn't he do it? It's not like he'd never killed before, men and women, or stood by as others ruined lives for the greater good. But something in this woman's eyes had stopped him, something that had entranced him enough to spare the life of one of their deadliest enemies.

_She was just a girl,_ _for Christ's sakes_.

"It just didn't feel right," he just said, and really, he had no better argument. Coulson was going to kill him; Fury would kill him again. But even now, as she sat on his bed, wearing his shirt, looking at him like she was pissed that he saved her or that he thought she needed saving and yet just wondering why, Clint couldn't force himself to regret his choice. "It's not like I particularly enjoy killing people, you know."

She gave him this curious look again, shifting on the bed and stretching her legs as she tucked the pillow against the headboard. "Do you want to sleep with me?" she asked, seemingly not offended by the idea, but still very curious.

A faint blush crept up on his skin, and she tried hard to suppress a smile. "That's a trick question," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "If I say no, you'll think I'm calling you unattractive or that I'm gay because no man can resist you. If I say yes, you'll call me a pig. I don't even know why I care about what you think." She tilted her head, a little smile playing at her lips, and Clint sighed. "Okay. You're gorgeous, and that's part of your skill set," he continued, "but I don't think you have any idea how beautiful you are. Men use you, the Red Room uses you, and you do what you're told. You think that every man wants to sleep with you because that's the only thing you know. That's why this is the only reason you can think of for me helping you."

She couldn't help it, she gasped just a little, her mouth hanging open for a second before she took control of her emotions again. She tried to sound playful and sure of herself, but none of them bought it as she spoke. "I didn't know that you had to take Psychology classes to join S.H.I.E.L.D.," she said, lowering her gaze for a moment as she couldn't hold his any longer.

Clint shrugged. "You're not evil like they all pretend you are," he said, his tone soft and gentle. "My boss thinks you were born with a knife in your hand. Your boss thinks you're a killing machine. I think that no one is meant for this life; you were just unfortunate," he finished, almost in a whisper.

"What if you're wrong, and I kill you in your sleep?" she asked, her own tone dropping to a low murmur. She sounded like she was asking the question more to herself than to him.

He smiled then, cocky again. "I'm rarely ever wrong, just so you know." He looked at his watch, and sighed again. "It's late, I really should call my boss. There's food in the fridge if you're hungry. I'm not much of a cook," he confessed.

She shook her head, slipping under his sheets – nothing like the silky ones she slept in the night before in her villa – and tucking them up to her chest as she lied down. "You never actually answered the question," she said as she turned on her side, bending her legs to her and curling into a ball.

"I'm not helping you for sexual favors, if that's what you're asking," Clint said seriously, almost offended that she would think that before remembering that she had absolutely no reason to trust him. "Now, like I said, you're gorgeous and you're actually kind of funny for an assassin extraordinaire, so, why not?" he admitted. "Happy now?"

"Actually, yes," she said sleepily, covering a yawn with her hand. "It's a nice change, knowing what people want from me for once," she admitted without thinking.

Clint gave her a look then, that had she been looking at him in that moment, she would have probably slapped him for. It was something between pity and compassion, concern and worry that he shouldn't feel for her, but that he still did. "Goodnight, Alice," he said softly as he saw her lashes flutter.

She tucked her hand beneath her cheek, already almost asleep. "Natalia," she whispered back.

"_Natalia_," he repeated quietly, tasting the name in his mouth before sighing again as he took his phone in his hand and hit the speed dial, waiting for Coulson's lecture and possible firing.

* * *

She startled awake hours later, sweat dripping down her spine as she gasped for air. Reaching out for her weapons, she didn't find any as her fingers brushed her bare skin instead of her garter at her thigh. Shaking her head, Natalia lifted a hand to her face, rubbing at her eyes and brushing off her hair that had fallen over her eyes during her sleep, slowly coming to her senses. First, she noticed that she wasn't wearing her silky black dress anymore, but a man's shirt that smelled like cheap washing powder and a faint hint of cologne. And then she saw _him_, still on his chair and in a position that had to kill his neck, his bow and arrows and gun in the other corner of the room, nowhere near him if he needed them – if _she_ attacked him.

He trusted her.

_Why?_

Natalia contemplated lying down again and trying to sleep, but she knew she couldn't. During the day, it was easier to focus on the mission and her target, but at night, hundreds of memories raced in her mind and she had absolutely no idea if they belonged to her or not. She'd been so many different women in her life that she never quite felt whole, like a real person; no memories of her family or her childhood – she even doubted that Natalia was her real name. But ever since she was a kid, thirteen or fourteen maybe, she didn't even know, she had been unable to spend a night without waking up in cold sweat, nightmares plaguing her, and the ever sensation of blood gushing on her hands.

She stared at him, as if seeing him for the first time. She only knew three things about him: his name was Clint Barton, he was an agent with S.H.I.E.L.D., and he had spared her life when everything in him should have told him not to. The rest she could only guess. He was young; older than her, but around thirty only. He could be cocky, but it was just a façade because deep down, he was gentle and sweet. He was also an _idiot_, for sparing her and believing that he could just bring her over to S.H.I.E.L.D. like a teenage boy introducing his girlfriend to his parents for the first time. He was not meant for this life, either; Natalia just knew it. He cared too much; it would be his downfall someday.

She didn't trust him. But then again, she had never really trusted anybody before.

She wanted to feel gratitude towards him, felt like it was how she was supposed to feel, but all she felt was confusion and a faint anger. She hated not understanding, and Clint Barton's actions tonight made no sense whatsoever. He said he'd bring her over to his boss, that he wanted to make an agent out of her, and he was here, sleeping soundly with her in the same room, unarmed and unafraid – and she still didn't trust him. Couldn't. Wouldn't. Trusting people was a weakness, and Natalia wasn't weak; she couldn't afford it.

So why was she padding softly on the floor to him, giving his shoulder a light pat before taking a couple steps back and calling out his name? "Barton," she said, once, twice. No answer. "Clint?" she tried again, shaking his shoulder.

This time he woke, and that's when she realized how different they were. Had he tried to wake her up, she would have surely attempted to choke him; but here he was, slowly emerging from sleep and blinking his lashes at her. "Natalia," he said lowly, his voice still husky from sleep. "What, you – do you need something?" he asked as he sat up straight, stretching tired, sore limbs.

Another difference. Something completely new, that Natalia wasn't used to at all: someone caring about her. She stood there, staring at him, and not saying a word. Shocked.

Clint frowned, standing up abruptly, hovering around her. "Natalia?" he repeated. "Is it okay if I call you Natalia?" he asked, lifting a hand to her before letting it fall at his side, rethinking his move. "I mean, Black Widow isn't really much of a name…"

She smiled despite her best effort not to. "You can have the bed. I'm not tired anymore," Natalia just said, taking a seat on the other chair.

His brow furrowed, and Clint gave her a concerned look. What was it with him, she wondered. "You don't look like you really slept," he replied, taking in her tired features. Without her make-up, she looked completely different. Not any less gorgeous; just tired, and younger. In the dim light of the apartment, it felt as if she had let her walls down, probably not even realizing it as she looked back at him, exhaustion completely pulling her under as she nodded her head weakly. "That bed's big enough for two people. After all, we're married," he teased lightly.

Here was another thing Natalia knew about Clint Barton: he was funny, even if she would deny thinking it until the day she died. He was supposed to be her enemy, he had been sent to kill her, but here he was, making her laugh as if they'd known each other forever. It was refreshing. Dangerous, but refreshing. She followed him to the bed where he took the right side, just lying on his back with an arm thrown over his head, and she curled on the other side like she had before. It should have felt weird – it didn't.

She wanted to ask him how things had gone with his agency, but Natalia didn't want to disrupt his sleep. She waited a moment, and when she realized he wasn't sleeping, she tucked her head on her hand and looked up at him. In the now dark apartment she could just barely make out his shape, the fall and rise of his chest as he breathed, and she felt her eyelids flutter close again, as if lulled to sleep by the sheer presence of another human being in the same bed. Natalia resisted the pull, though, and spoke. "So…what happened?" she asked. "I didn't hear any yelling."

"Oh, there was, trust me," Clint chuckled softly. "But I know Phil. He gets angry, but only because he cares. He knows I'm an idiot, but he's there for his agents no matter what." He shifted, turning on his side to look at her and locking his gaze with hers – his eyes adjusted to the dark a lot quicker than hers did, and now that they'd been introduced properly, she knew he had to be the one they called Hawkeye. "He said I was an idiot, but he listened. He understood."

"Understood what?" she couldn't help but ask, because she for one didn't understand anything at the moment.

"That you're just a kid," Clint sighed, his breath warm as it fanned over her face. "That we can't kill people and then pretend we're the good guys in this story." He paused for a moment, and the room was so silent that Natalia could hear him flick his tongue on his chapped lips before he continued. "You didn't have a choice. You followed orders."

"And you disobeyed yours," Natalia countered.

"Yeah, I did." He turned on his back again, pulling at the sheets and covering them both. "I've killed more people than I can count. But this is the first time I've felt like by doing so, I wasn't any better than the enemy we're supposed to fight against," he confessed. "Phil got that. Fury will be a lot less understanding, but nothing Phil cannot handle."

"Phil?" she asked over a yawn.

"Phil Coulson. He's my handler. Don't call him Phil," Clint warned her. "I only call him Phil behind his back. He's a good man. Makes sure his agents are alive _and_ well. He's the kind of man who will make sure you're eating and sleeping after a mission going south, even if he always looks like he reads the _How To Be A Perfect Agent_ guide every day for fun. He'll be good to you."

"You say that like I'm a puppy looking for a new home," Natalia said, trying to sound light as she felt a pang in her chest that she couldn't quite explain.

"Sorry," Clint apologized, yawning, too. "What I mean is that he won't look at you like you're any different from another rookie. Not now. Not anymore. And he'll plead your case with Fury. He won't let anything happen to you."

She shifted uncomfortably, the pang in her chest tightening, making it hard to breathe normally. The more he spoke, the more anxious she felt; he kept talking like he was going to hand her over to Agent Coulson and Director Fury, like she was nothing but a bargain, and it hurt. Inexplicably, after everything she'd been through, _this_ hurt a hell lot. "You won't be there," she stated as the realization dawned on her.

He turned on his side then, his hand seeking hers in the dark. She felt her pulse beat faster as his fingers closed around her wrist, and she felt so stupid, really, because here she was, lying in bed with a man who had been sent to kill her and she's all flustered about the brush of his hand on her skin. "I'm not gonna disappear after I drop you off," he promised. "I bet Coulson and Fury will give me a lecture for about a week. But…I work better alone. And so do you, I suppose," he continued. "I'm not sure I'm the most qualified agent to train you."

"Why?" she asked, and immediately hated herself for it because it made her sound childish and weak, and it was already bad enough that he saw her as a kid.

He seemed to ponder it for a moment before he answered her. "I don't know," he admitted softly. "We'll see."

"We'll see," she echoed him. "What's the plan?" she asked, changing the subject, choosing a more practical and less emotional one.

"We're getting you a new passport, so the KGB can't track you until we're on American soil. You're my new French wife, and we're going back to the U.S. after our honeymoon. Our contact will bring us everything we need in two days, and we'll fly back right away," he said. "Until then, we're staying in here."

"Sounds easy."

"Yeah. I do this every day," he said cheekily. "Now you just need to try not to kill me until then, and everything should go smoothly."

"I'll try," she replied, nuzzling her face deeper in her pillow, sleep lulling her in its arms.

Ten minutes later, she was fast asleep, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, the other loosely clenched around his shirt.

* * *

It all felt surreal, the weight of the ring on her finger, the warmth of his hand in hers as they stood at the airport, the perfect picture of wedding bliss. When he bent his head to kiss her as the man with her passport in his hands took too long, Natalia felt herself tiptoe to reach him, and linger just a moment more than necessary before the man at the counter coughed and handed her her passport back. _People always get embarrassed by public displays of affection_, he taught her as they took their seats in the plane. They spent the entire flight holding hands, and at some point, her head fell to his shoulder as she dozed off.

Here was another thing she knew about Clint Barton after three days with him: he was too good to be true. She had to be tread carefully around him, because no one was this kind; no one was ready to put their job in jeopardy for someone else like that.

When they landed, a car was waiting for them. Clint held the door for her as she slid in the backseat, and she sat near another agent who tried to cuff her the moment Clint climbed in. "No," he said roughly, giving the man a dark look. "She's not a prisoner."

"It's okay," Natalia relented, understanding the fear and suspicion – finally someone who was acting adequately towards the Black Widow.

"No," Clint insisted. "I didn't bring you here so they'd chain you again," he said firmly.

That's when she felt the angry confusion falter, only to be replaced by what could only be described as warmth, this sheer warmth brought by human interaction, closeness and care. It wasn't quite gratitude yet, but for the first time in her life, Natalia felt tethered to the world by another person.

The warmth faded as soon as they stepped into S.H.I.E.L.D.'s HQ and she was sat at a table, and Clint was made to leave the room. She gave him a look, pathetic and weak, silently begging him to do something, anything, even though she knew he'd already done everything in his power and beyond. Things were now in the hands of the man who sat on the opposite side of the table, and who intimidated her more than the man who had aimed an arrow at her in a dark alley three nights prior despite his bringing a plate of salad and fries. "I bet you must be hungry," he said, and his voice was a lot warmer than she'd expected. "Barton's known to eat everything he finds and leave nothing to others."

"He made pancakes," she said, because hell, if he was going to talk to her as if they were friends, then so would she.

"Ah," Coulson said, amused as he stole one of her fries. "Barton's a good guy," he noted.

She nodded her head as she started eating. "He seems to be. He said the same about you."

"I bet he also told you he was better off alone, and yet, here we are." Coulson paused for a moment, watching her with an almost fond look. "You're not asking about what's going to happen."

Natalia shrugged. "I figured that if this food was poisoned, I wouldn't have to," she replied.

Coulson laughed. "I'm not going to pretend that I wasn't originally…well, shocked over Barton's update. But he's one of the best agents I've ever had, and I trust his judgment. He thinks there's good in you, and I'd like to believe that, too." He looked her in the eye and she didn't blink, staring back into the older man's eyes, and she saw what Clint had told her, the concern and care Phil Coulson had for his own.

And he was looking at _her_ the same way.

"I'm ready to tell you anything," she offered. "Anything you want. And I'll do whatever you want, too."

"Why?" Coulson asked, and though Natalia had expected him too, she hadn't been able to come up with an answer. Not until now.

She looked up at the glass wall behind him, knowing that Clint had to stand behind it. "Because it's the right thing to do."

Coulson smiled, and this smile told her she had passed the test. He took another couple of fries from her plate before getting up. "Well, I think we're done here. Agent Barton will lead you to your room. Take a shower, get comfortable. We'll talk again later. Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D., Miss Romanova," he finished as he left the room.

Clint entered the room as Coulson left, a somewhat proud smile on his lips. He led her to her quarters, and even if some agents glanced at her on their way, it didn't feel like they feared her or begrudged Clint's decision and Coulson's acceptance. No, most of them were just curious to see the Black Widow up close and live to tell the tale. She spent a moment taking in her quarters, nothing like the fancy universe she had evolved in for years, but still so much warmer and cozy. Maybe this was it…_home_.

Clint sat down on her couch, pulling up papers Coulson had given him. "We need to fill these up," he said.

She raised an eyebrow. "_We_?" she asked, wanting to make sure she'd heard him well.

"Uh-uh," Clint nodded, leaning against the back of the couch and propping his feet on the coffee table. "Even if you'll be under Coulson's orders, I'm gonna be your supervising officer for a little while."

"So you're not leaving?"

He gave her a smile. "Not yet," he replied. "Okay, so, first things first: I need a name," he said, tapping his pen against the paper.

Natalia took a look at herself in the large mirror in her room, staring at the clothes Clint had Leo buy for her and her dark hair. She'd been unmade and remade once again, but it hadn't been painful or violent this time; nothing she couldn't shed at the end of the day, though she didn't particularly want to – except for the hair, she liked her red hair. She thought for a moment, before she said, "Natasha. Natasha Romanov."

"Natasha," Clint repeated as he wrote it down. "I like it. I'll need your signature on these," he added, handing her the file.

She took it, and wrinkled her nose as she tried to read his messy handwriting. "You spelled it wrong," Natasha said. "_Romanoff_. That looks American."

Clint grinned. "Well, you're American now, Agent Romanoff," he shrugged, making no attempt at fixing his mistake. "Okay, so, tomorrow's your medical examination. Just regular stuff. I can stay with you if you want," he added when he saw her eyes widen.

"I'm not a child," Natasha replied, too petulantly to make her point as she sat on the other end of the couch, kicking his feet off of her coffee table with her own.

"Of course you're not," Clint said, holding his hands up in defense. "But our nurse is a vicious woman. She pretends to count to three before she stabs you, but she always stabs you at two," he said, embellishing a shudder.

Natasha rolled her eyes, muttering something in Russian about him being a baby and holding his hand at his next medical examination. "So, is this some sort of quarantine?" she asked, gesturing vaguely to the room. If it was, then Russia had a lesson to take from America about taking prisoners.

Clint shook his head. "Nope. I have quarters just like these down the hall. I have an apartment, too, when I don't want to stay here, but there's no use going there when I'm just here for a couple days before leaving for another mission," he added. "Tomorrow afternoon, we'll go to accounting. They'll open a bank account for you, and you'll discuss your salary and all. The day after, we'll see if you need anything for here. We're meeting with Fury after."

"Should I be scared?" she asked, not feeling any dread, though. She had become a traitor and fled her country, painting a target on her back for the Red Room; Nick Fury couldn't be any scarier than that.

Clint laughed, that good-natured laugh she had already gotten used to in the span of the last three days. "I'll be more scared than you, I can tell you that," he replied. "Mostly he'll look you in the eye for a minute to see if you're really in, because _of course_ Coulson and I have to be _morons_ to do this, and then he'll send us back here. We'll start training next week."

"I don't need training," Natasha said, a little upset that Clint Barton, agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. that she had never heard about before, could tell _her_ she needed it.

"I didn't say you needed it, Natasha," he said easily, as if calming her down and countering her fits of temper was the most natural thing for him. "But I do. I've seen you work alone – I need to see how you work with a partner."

Her eyes widened again, and Natasha curled her legs to her, wrapping her arms around her knees as he tilted his head to her, their eyes locking. "I thought you said you didn't like working with a partner."

"I don't. Things always get messy," Clint said. "But, it's not every day that you bring a rogue Soviet agent home and ask your boss if you can keep her. You _had_ to know they wouldn't send you alone on a mission. At least, not for now."

Natasha looked at him with curious eyes, trying to see if he was bothered by the situation. If he was, Clint didn't let it show. They were good, these S.H.I.E.L.D. agents; if Coulson blamed Clint for his decision, he hadn't let it show either. She didn't know if there would be consequences of his disobedience for him, but he seemed to be ready to face them, for her. That was new, too. "So…does that mean we're partners?" she asked, tugging at her bottom lip with her teeth.

"I guess so, yeah," Clint replied, turning fully to her. "Partners. We could be friends, too, if you wanted, but partners seems to be a good place to start." He extended his hand to her again, just like he had the night everything had changed. "Agent Clint Barton," he said, bowing his head a little.

Natasha smiled, a small, almost shy smile, and shook his hand. "Agent Natasha Romanoff," she said, tasting the words in her mouth. She'd been Elena and Katrina and Anastasia and a hundred others, claimed by some, owned by others, and it felt good to finally have something that was supposed to be _permanent_.

"Well, how do you feel about going to my room to drink over this, Nat?" he suggested as he got up, offering her his hand. "I think I have vodka. This will probably not end well for me," he said with a smirk.

"Now you're making sense, Barton," Natasha said, accepting his hand even if everything screamed in her head not to.

(It wasn't until they'd emptied a bottle that she realized he had called her Nat. It took her another to realize she didn't mind.)

* * *

_to be continued_


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**: Thank you for the lovely feedback. I hope you all continue to enjoy this story. :)

* * *

She fell to the mat for the third time in a row with a low grunt, pinned under his weight with nowhere to go. Natasha groaned, frustrated, and she tried to push him off of her but Clint didn't move an inch, effectively trapping her underneath him. "What's wrong with you, Nat?" he asked, concern in his voice that only irritated her even more. "You never go down without a fight."

"You're crushing me, Barton," she hissed, digging her short nails in his shoulders to make him let go. "_That's_ what's wrong."

She muttered something in Russian that Clint didn't get and he rolled off of her, offering her his hand as he got on his feet. Natasha ignored it like she usually did but this time it felt odd, and Clint watched her as she walked to the locker room without a word or a last glance. He gave her ten minutes before joining her, finding her sitting on the bench with a towel wrapped around her body and another in her hands as she dried her red hair, never looking up at him. Clint sat next to her in silence, waiting for her to say something.

She _didn't_, of course.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he offered after a moment, not knowing how to tread around her. After three months, Clint had hoped that Natasha would stop acting like a deer caught in the headlights, stunned for a second before running away with all she's worth, but she was still wary around him sometimes, bottling her feelings up and never sharing anything more than necessary. Clint knew he wasn't good at talking either, enjoying the calm and peace of solo assignments exactly for this reason, but they both had to make an effort for this partnership to work out.

Natasha scoffed. "When a woman walks out on you, it means she doesn't want to talk to you, Clint," she replied with that tone that told him he was an idiot. But he couldn't be that bad because she called him Clint, keeping his last name to tease him or when he really annoyed her by now. "I'm okay," she insisted.

"No, you're not," Clint said. "I can pin you down twice in a row in a _very_ good day, and then you always give me hell for it. You almost broke a couple of my ribs once," he laughed, bringing a hand to the faint bruise that still had to color a patch of skin above his abdomen. Natasha smiled at that, smugness clear on her face, and Clint pressed on, "What's going on, Natasha?" he asked again, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder to make her turn and look at him.

Their gazes locked, hers guarded and his concerned, and Natasha sighed, dropping the towel in her hair on the bench. She ran her fingers through her curls distractedly, the silence stretching between them but less heavy this time as she gave herself a moment to think. Clint waited patiently, recognizing in her telltale signs of nervousness his own; how she preferred keeping things to herself, how she seemed to want this to work but still dreaded it. Finally she spoke, her voice strained with the exhaustion she tried so hard to conceal. "I can't remember anything," she said, dropping her head. "It's just…all confused in my head. The more the doctor pushes, the less I'm sure of what is real and what's not. And the little I remember, S.H.I.E.L.D. must already know."

One of Fury's conditions for accepting that Natasha joined S.H.I.E.L.D. had been that she would see a specialist to help her with her fleeting memories. She knew a lot of things that could be of use to the agency, but her memories were blurred into a string of incoherent images racing through her mind constantly, and she could never tell the difference between what she remembered living and the memories the Red Room had put inside her head. The therapy sessions were intense and she came out of them drained and moody, and Clint knew better than to try and talk to her after them; clearly, this strategy hadn't worked out as well as planned.

"It's only been three months," Clint tried to reassure her. "We knew what happened to you, what you went through. We knew it was gonna be hard, and –"

"It's not just _hard_," Natasha interrupted him, lifting a hand to rub at her temple where a headache was forming. "You don't know what it's like," she continued, her tone softer, an apology for being so sharp. "You don't know what it's like to be unmade. You, you can go back to yourself between missions. You have family and friends somewhere. You have a place you call home. You know who you are. _I_ don't," she finished in a whisper.

"_Natasha_," Clint spoke just as softly, tilting his head to meet her eyes.

"You say it like it means something," she said, avoiding his gaze and staring at her lap. The gentle tone of his voice shouldn't have that much of an effect on her but it did, and it needed to _stop_. "It _doesn't_. It's just another name I'll wear until someone gives me a new one."

The distress in her voice was clear, and Clint was at a loss as to how to deal with a beaten Natasha. She was always so tough and guarded and he'd never seen her so low and vulnerable; it both meant a lot that she'd let him see her like this as much as it was a big responsibility to be there for her, he who was not used to someone counting on him. Especially when that someone was a rogue agent he'd brought home with him and who loathed admitting to needing something or someone.

What a pair they were, Clint thought as he awkwardly patted her knee, squeezing lightly there for a moment. He felt her tense for a minute before she relaxed a little, still not looking up at him. "You don't have to be something you don't want to be here," he finally said. "If you want to be Natasha, then you're Natasha," he added like it was so easy. "Natasha's good enough for me."

"I'm not sure that's what Fury bargained for," Natasha countered, ignoring his last comment and the light flutter it provoked in her chest. Clint frowned at her, confused, and she sighed. "You can't be that naïve, Clint," she said tiredly. "Fury didn't take me in because you gave him your puppy look. He expects results, and if he doesn't get any, we both know what will happen."

The crease between his brow deepened, and Clint shook his head in disbelief. "You really think he's gonna throw you out and serve you to the Red Room because you haven't spilled all your secrets? Jesus, Nat, you gotta give me some credit," he added. "I brought you here so you could do the right thing and have a better life, not so you'd keep living with the fear that somebody else is gonna stab you in the back. You think I'm gonna back out on that and let anyone play with you again?"

She got up abruptly, turning her back to him to go to her locker, but Clint didn't let her this time; he got up as quickly and grabbed her arm, his touch light but firm as he turned her to face him. "_Natasha_," he said with that voice filled with concern that she wanted to hate so much but couldn't. "Listen to me. You're one of us now, and it's not gonna change anytime soon."

"What happens when even Coulson can't find a good reason to keep me here?" she asked, her voice small like a child's. "What happens when you're tired of training me or they need you for a mission and you leave and Coulson realizes I'm just a burden? What happens when they're tired of wasting time and energy and one of their agents on someone who's useless to them?" she kept going, clenching her fists at her side.

"Nothing happens," Clint replied firmly. "You're a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent now, just like me, and we take care of our own. And you're _my_ _partner_," he insisted, stretching the word for her to understand it. "Do you really think I'm gonna let anyone take my partner away after I've put so much time and energy into making her a somewhat decent agent?" he asked, his tone teasing and warm, hoping to get a smile from her.

It worked. Natasha rolled her eyes but did give him a smile. "Somewhat decent, huh?" she repeated. "You're the worst supervising officer ever."

"I'm the best," Clint grinned. "Great pep talks, best shot ever, best agent Phil Coulson ever had…You're lucky to have me," he added cockily.

She should have punched him then, Natasha realized in that moment. She should have twisted his arm when he first grabbed her own, should have gone to her quarters and locked her door, but she didn't; she had tried to put distance between them but ended up sabotaging her plan herself, letting him catch up with her too easily. Natasha suspected why, but refused to admit it.

She couldn't trust him.

She couldn't like him.

She couldn't appreciate having someone to have her back.

But she _did_.

She looked up at him then, meeting his green eyes that were always filled with concern and kindness for her. _Why_, Natasha still didn't know; but she was done fighting him – done fighting the only person who seemed to genuinely care about her without asking anything in return. Coulson was nice; he smiled politely at her, asked how her training was going. He always made sure there was a cup of her favorite tea waiting for her when she looked like she was having a bad day. But did he really care about her, or did he only want results? Was he only watching over her to see if Clint had been right to bring her, or because he was ready to put an end to this if it didn't turn out like he expected? Fury had agreed with letting her join S.H.I.E.L.D, but his expectations were very clear.

Clint was the only one who didn't expect anything from her.

Except her trust and her friendship, maybe. Then again, he didn't _expect_ it; he just seemed to _want_ it. Was it this bad to want it, too?

"Natasha," he spoke again, bringing her back from her reverie. He squeezed her arm and she suppressed a shiver, internally hating herself for that breach in her walls. "Partners, right?" he said, his tone gentle but serious, the honesty in his green eyes unsettling.

Natasha nodded her head. "Partners," she agreed. She'd never understand why he was trying so hard with her, but Natasha couldn't find it in her to be suspicious of him. For the past three months, Clint had been nothing but patient and understanding, respecting her privacy while still showing that he was there if she needed. Some people were just good-natured like that, she decided against her better judgment, and Clint Barton was probably the nicest person she'd ever met. It was a dangerous thought and Natasha knew it; one day, she'd stop being suspicious and afraid and let him in and _he_ would be her downfall. This relationship was doomed from the very start.

But in the chaos of her life, what did a little more drama really mean?

"Good," Clint nodded, letting go of her arm and taking a step back. "Now, get dressed and get back in that gym. I don't remember telling you training was over," he said with a grin.

Natasha narrowed her eyes at him. "And you had to wait until I took a shower to tell me that?" she said, faking annoyance.

"Well, I wasn't gonna follow you into the cubicle and drag you back there," Clint replied, cocking an eyebrow at her as his lips twitched up in a smile. "But, heh, if you don't wanna learn how to use a bow anymore, I'm sure I can find –"

"You'll teach me how to shoot your bow?" she asked, her eyes widening like a child's on Christmas morning.

She looked so young then, so beautiful, that Clint couldn't believe sometimes that she had started killing people when she was hardly fifteen. She was a legend for most people, but the more Clint got to know her and the less he thought she lived up to her reputation. Natasha wasn't cruel or vindictive; she had just been raised and trained to follow orders without questioning them, and she had never stopped to care about what she was doing or who she was working for because sentiments got people killed in their line of work. She was efficient and practical, and people found her cold because of that, but Clint knew better.

He smiled at her then, lazily crossing his arms over his chest. "Not _my_ bow. You don't play with a guy's bow and arrows like that, Nat," he said, the nickname falling out of his mouth easily. "But, you know, if you ever happen to need to use it, you might as well learn now."

Clint turned his back to her, walking out of the locker room to give her some privacy to get dressed, but not before seeing the genuine spark of joy light up her green eyes. To hell with anybody calling her cold and heartless; she was just a kid who needed some guidance and someone to have faith in her.

Wasn't it what Coulson had done for him, too? Why did no one else see that?

She joined him a couple minutes later, a rare carefree smile on her lips, and Clint felt good knowing that he'd managed to help her forget about her worries. It was no way to live, always dreading the moment when you'd be left behind or rejected, and he so wanted her to believe that he wouldn't do that. He'd let enough people down not to ever forget how that heavy weight on his chest felt like and he'd promised to himself he wouldn't let that happen again.

For some reason, the very idea was unthinkable with _her_.

"You ever used one of these?" he asked her, nodding at the compound bow in his hand.

Natasha shook her head. "Not exactly my weapon of choice," she replied. "No offense, but I don't see why you'd use a bow when you can have a gun or a knife."

Clint chuckled. "You just wait until you know how to use one and you'll change your mind. Come on," he said, motioning for her to take the bow and face the dummy he'd put there.

He watched her as she took the bow and lined up a shot, a smile tugging at her lips. "Can I picture you on that dummy?" she asked teasingly.

"You can picture whatever you want, you're not gonna shoot anything in that position," he said, coming up behind her to correct her stance. He rested one hand at her hip, placing his foot in between hers and guiding her into position. "Here. Don't look at the arrow; focus on the target. Move up your elbow like that," he went on, closing his fingers around her arm to rotate it. "You're gonna hurt your arm until you find the right position that suits you, but this should help. Go on, give it a try."

Natasha looked at him over her shoulder, unsure, and Clint stepped out, nodding at her. She drew the string back, feeling the bow shift and guiding herself back into position before letting it fly. The arrow flew and missed the dummy within an inch, and Natasha groaned in frustration. "This is stupid," she said, lowering the bow at her side.

"No, it's not," Clint said in a calm voice. He stepped up behind her again, spreading her feet with his to guide her into position. "Position is important," he said as he grabbed her arm and bent it the right way. "You can't have a good aim if your position is wrong."

"How am I supposed to know if the position is right?" Natasha asked, half exasperated and half curious and eager to learn.

"You'll just _feel_ it," Clint replied, and he could feel that his answer didn't satisfy her. He had a sense of who Natasha Romanoff was by now, and she liked not only to be good at something, but _excellent_. She left nothing to chance; she was prepared and methodical and he admired that about her, but she needed to learn how to let go of some of her control to master this. "We'll do it together."

Natasha tilted her head to look at him again, an eyebrow raised at him. "Is this how you teach people how to shoot?" she asked.

Clint looked down at the nonexistent space between them, her back pressed to his chest, his hand at her hip and his other arm wrapped around hers to guide her. If someone happened to come in the gym in that moment, he'd probably never hear the end of it; half of the agency already thought they were sleeping together anyway. Late nights in her quarters or his, three months spent at S.H.I.E.L.D.'s HQ when Clint never stayed there for more than a week between assignments, and super secret spies and soldiers liked gossips just like the next person. If Natasha had heard of it, she hadn't let it show; she was always with him though, shadowing him, not quite daring to go talk to anyone else, so it was unlikely. "I never taught anyone," he just said honestly.

"Really?" Natasha asked, the surprise obvious in her voice, and something else that he couldn't quite name.

"Really," Clint said. "Ready to try again?" he asked. She nodded, and he felt her hair tickle his chin as she did. He let her draw the string back and corrected her stance one last time before letting go of her.

This time, the arrow hit its target right in its center.

Clint realized then that he liked this; liked having a partner, someone he could rely on and teach things to. It was a give and take between them: Natasha had taken to teaching him Russian, and he had initiated her to America's lifestyle; she was good at hand-to-hand combat, but he was a better shot. They complemented each other in ways that Clint wasn't sure he could have found with somebody else, and maybe that was the reason why he enjoyed this so much when he had refused to train anybody else for years. Coulson had insisted many times; said he could use someone else with his skill set, but Clint had always declined, requesting solo missions when most agents worked in pairs.

Until her.

The pride he felt as her arrow hit the target was something he'd never felt. He was proud of what he'd accomplished to get here, at S.H.I.E.L.D., to have proven himself to anybody who could have doubted him, and to himself – it had taken years to get to that point, to acknowledge that it was his own doing and not luck or chance. But the pride he felt towards her was something else. It felt good; it felt right.

Natasha turned to him, the smile on her lips reaching her eyes a rare and beautiful sight. "Somewhat decent, huh?" she said, echoing his words from earlier.

She was too cocky for her own good, Clint decided.

He liked that.

* * *

Clint felt like he was seven all over again, summoned to the orphanage's head for something stupid his brother must have done and blamed him for. Coulson stared at him for a long time and Clint just sat there wordlessly, waiting for the other man to say something.

"You've made a lot of progress with Agent Romanoff," Coulson finally said. "She seems to have grown accustomed to being here."

"I'd like to think so, yeah," Clint replied. "She still thinks that cheeseburgers are evil spawns, but at least she stopped calling me a dog. That's something, I suppose," he teased.

Coulson smiled almost fondly. No man could resist Natasha Romanoff, and Clint definitely put himself in that category. It was hard not to fall for her beauty, but it was even harder not to end up liking her. She was the opposite of what people expected her to be, and although her sense of humor needed some improvement, she was fun to be around. She challenged him, pushed him to his limits as much as he did her, and Clint knew that every bad choice he'd ever made in his life were eclipsed by this one moment of pure genius when he had spared her life. Not that he'd ever say that out loud. Coulson would see him as a lovesick puppy when it was _so_ not about that at all.

"Do you think she's ready to go on a mission?" Coulson then asked, growing serious.

"Agent Romanoff's very skilled," Clint started. "There's no arguing her technique is great, and –"

"I'm not asking you to make an assessment of her skills, Barton," Coulson interrupted him. "That woman is a legend. I know she can choke someone to death with her thighs and I've meant to ask her about that but I don't dare." He paused, almost rolling his eyes at himself. "What I want to know is if you think she's ready to go out there and work for us. I want to know if she's going to escape and betray us the moment she gets the occasion to."

"She would never do that," Clint said, not hesitating, not for a second.

"Is this your personal or your professional opinion?" Coulson asked, and though he didn't elaborate, Clint knew where he was going.

S.H.I.E.L.D. was no different than any other firm or team; people still couldn't understand that a man and a woman could work together and form a good team without sleeping together or falling in love with each other and being blindsided by their feelings. The bond he and Natasha had formed so quickly hadn't gone unnoticed by the other agents or Coulson himself, and Clint had been expecting this conversation for the last five months. "Don't you think it gets _personal_ when you put your life in someone else's hands?" he asked his handler.

"_Would_ you do that?" Coulson countered, resting his elbows on the table and his chin on top of his hands. "Would you trust her with your life on the field?"

Clint's response was immediate. "Absolutely," he said. "She's been with us for five months. She's gone to see her doctor every week despite how terrible she feels after every damn session. She's pushed herself at training. She's given us no reason to doubt or mistrust her," he went on, feeling the anger flare inside of him. He didn't know where this anger was coming from; Coulson was more than a boss, he was like a father figure to him and Clint had never really questioned his opinion or judgment before. But anger was bubbling up at Coulson's words. "She's told us everything she knows, and you can't deny it has helped us a lot. She's here, even though she knows some people resent her for what she's done in the past. But does anyone stop and try to think about how _she_ feels? Jesus, _no_, that'd be too much to ask," he finished, out of breath.

Coulson stared at him, but Clint didn't regret what he'd said. He didn't appreciate the insinuations in Coulson's tone, nor that he doubt his judgment. Natasha was ready, and Clint was sure she would do great; there was no arguing there.

Coulson nodded his head after a moment, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Then go get your partner and pack your bags. I need you to be ready to leave in two hours. You'll be briefed in the jet."

Clint tried to suppress a smile, but failed. It was a huge proof of trust that Coulson was showing him. The implications of it were clear: Natasha was under his responsibility, and any mistake would be considered his, Clint knew it. But he had no reason to believe things could go wrong. "Where are we going?" he asked. "Should I pack my swim trunks or my boots and ski hat?"

"This operation won't require Agent Romanoff to wear a bikini so you can forget about that," Coulson almost snorted. "You're going to Sao Paolo. Nothing out of the ordinary, you should be back by the end of the week."

Clint raised an eyebrow at him. Ever since he'd been recruited by S.H.I.E.L.D., he had never gone on a mission that could be referred to as _ordinary_. Dangerous and suicidal, sure, but ordinary? Hell no. He nodded his head at Coulson before leaving the conference room, heading to Natasha's quarters. He was surprised to see she wasn't there because she usually never went anywhere without him, so he pulled out his phone from his pocket and called her as he walked to his quarters.

And _there_ she was, sitting in his chair, biting at the nail of her thumb.

"What did Coulson want?" she asked immediately, panic edging in her tone that she wasn't even trying to hide. Five months ago, she would have never let him see her so out of her element; three months ago she would have laughed at the concern flashing in his eyes upon seeing her like this. But they weren't five or three months ago. He'd told her he was meeting with Coulson on that morning and she'd been pacing in her room ever since, wondering when the sword hanging above her head would fall on her, until she'd given up on that and come to his quarters, pacing again there.

"We're going on our first operation together," he said so she would calm down. Or at least, that's what he _hoped_ she would do; instead, Natasha's eyes grew wide. "Isn't it what you wanted?" he asked immediately, sitting down next to her. "You kept saying you wanted Coulson to trust you. Here we are," he shrugged, not understanding her reaction.

Natasha schooled her face, swallowing the lump in her throat. "I just find it…_weird_, I guess," she said, "Coulson's barely talked to me in five months, and now he's sending us on a mission without making me take a psych eval or whatever he calls what I've been doing?"

Clint frowned. "I suppose he takes my word for it. I told him you're ready. If you don't think you are, now would be a good time to say it, you know," he tried to say lightly.

"I am," Natasha said firmly, looking him in the eye. "But this sounds off." She started biting her nail again, unable to shake this nervousness away.

Clint reached for her hand, pulling it away from her lips. "What are you afraid of, Natasha?" he asked gently. He felt her tense before she pulled her hand away, and Clint knew he had not made the best word choice. "For whatever it's worth, I know _we're_ ready," he said, conviction in his tone.

This surprised Natasha. Her brow furrowed for a second before she relaxed, and she gave him a curious look. For months she'd thought that it was about Coulson needing to trust _her_, but there were two people in this partnership. She'd done her part, going to her therapy sessions and training with Clint, and he'd done his, reporting to his handler about her efforts and the progress they'd made. It had all led to this day; but Natasha had never really felt like it was about _them_. They were all testing her, waiting to see if she'd go rogue again and betray them – maybe even _expecting_ her to do so. But she hadn't, and she'd gained Clint's trust, enough for him to be willing to go on a mission with her.

It meant a lot, more than she could have ever imagined.

And she was _scared_ that it would end up badly, mostly for him after he'd been stupid or too kind, she couldn't choose, to help her out when she hadn't known she needed it.

She was terrified of her own feelings. And the more Clint looked at her and tried to reassure her that it'd be okay, the more she knew it _wouldn't_. There had to be a trap somewhere; maybe Coulson or Fury had finally come to their senses and realized she was not reliable and decided to finish her off. What better idea than to send her out on an assignment and have her killed there? Or maybe their target was someone who wanted her dead, too; it wouldn't be that hard to find because she'd gotten on just everybody's radar. The Red Room wanted her dead, a part of S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted that too; literally every government in between wouldn't miss the occasion either. This was a suicide mission, Natasha could feel it in her bones, and she wondered if they were making Clint witness that to punish him for his disobedience.

It sounded like something the KGB would do, she thought, and she only had Clint's naïve word that S.H.I.E.L.D. would never do that. Natasha felt her survival instincts kick in and she got up and crossed the room as fast as she could, but Clint blocked her way, almost anticipating her reaction as he stood between her and the door. He put both his hands on her shoulders and she wanted to kick him and run, but she didn't – _couldn't_. She stilled in a second at his touch, focusing on his green eyes as he met hers. "Natasha," he said, and damn, he needed to stop with that voice of his. "You're panicking," he said softly, as if speaking to a child. "You _don't_ panic. That's not you. Tell me what's going on," he urged her, tracing smooth patterns on her shoulders with his thumbs.

_I think your boss wants to kill me and you're too blind to see that this mission is a trap, and then you'll see it and you'll do something stupid and you'll get killed and I can't_, Natasha thought,her blood racing in her veins. She didn't even know where all of this was coming from; it was one thing to worry about her own survival because that's what she'd been thinking about constantly for longer than she could remember, but it was an entirely different thing to care about someone else. It was a weakness, and Natasha wasn't weak, except he'd made her so and she hated that feeling.

"Do you trust me?" he asked, and it felt like it came out of nowhere except it didn't. "Because I do trust you," he said, his tone just as serious as his eyes as he met hers. He saw the shock sparking there, how her eyes widened, and Clint went on, "I trust you to have my back and you need to trust that I'll have yours. Anything else is irrelevant."

"You make everything sound so simple," Natasha said, and really, she wanted to believe him. For all her negativity, Clint looked at the bright side and it was refreshing to have someone do that; but it wasn't who Natasha was, and though she wanted to trust him, she couldn't. It was sad and pathetic, but she'd never trusted anyone before and a man who had aimed an arrow at her and almost killed her wasn't on top of her trust list.

Which was really sad and pathetic, because at least he'd been the only one not trying to gain her trust by feeding her lies.

"Things don't have to be that complicated," Clint just shrugged, not letting go of her shoulders. "Now, we're leaving in less than two hours, so I need to know if you're with me on this?"

She should have said _no_. She really should have. Clint was strong and sharp, but Natasha could be vicious and she knew she could take him down, flee the building and never look back, and maybe that was exactly what she should have done from the very start. This was doomed to fail, and if she was going to die, Natasha much preferred choosing her own way to go; it didn't involve letting her guard down just long enough to be betrayed again.

She should have said no. So Natasha surprised herself when all she said was, "Yes."

"Then go pack your bag," Clint said, lightly squeezing her arm before letting go and grabbing his own as he opened the nearest drawer to throw some clothes in it.

He didn't push her to answer his question; didn't insist on making her say she trusted him. No. He'd said what he wanted to say and it seemed to be enough for him, and Natasha was oddly grateful for that. She couldn't imagine telling him that she wanted to believe he'd risk his life for hers, but that she couldn't _really_ believe it.

Never mind that he had already kind of done that.

An hour later, as they sat next to each other in the jet, she really wanted to believe him when he said, "Everything's gonna be just fine, Nat."

(Three days later, as she knelt down beside him, covered in his blood, she couldn't find it in her to do so.)

* * *

_to be continued_


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N**: This is probably the first time I've updated a story so quickly! I was inspired, and the result is this chapter that's a lot longer than what I originally planned. Oh, well. Hope you enjoy. ;) I'd love to know what you think about it.

* * *

It was an easy mission: get in, find the target, eliminate the threat, get out. Or at least, it was _supposed_ to be.

Their cover was in no way original. They were a married couple on vacation in Sao Paolo, Ethan and Gabrielle Green, young and smitten and happy. Natasha had gone blonde for the occasion, and she smiled and laughed and cooed at Clint's arm as they wandered through the city, seeing the sights, taking pictures and kissing in every corner; the perfect picture of marital bliss, noticeable but easily forgettable. It allowed them to stay under the radar while scouting the neighborhood where their target lived, just like hundreds of other tourists. Their target, the leader of a crime syndicate that had gotten under S.H.I.E.L.D.'s radar, was rumored to meet with a local criminal organization to expend his business. Clint and Natasha had been tasked with getting to him first, taking him down, and helping local authorities with the arrest of members of that organization – nothing that they _hadn't_ done a thousand times before on their own.

It was supposed to go smoothly.

It _didn't_.

It wasn't his fault nor hers, not even _theirs_; they moved in sync as if they'd been doing this for years, communicating with just a look or a sign and looking out for each other in an almost choreographed dance. But then civilians had gotten caught in the crossfire, and there was only so much they could do to dodge bullets while still tailing their target and his men and avoid casualties at all cost. It was no one's fault when a bullet tore its way through Clint's right arm, the sudden, throbbing pain making him let go of his bow as he fell to his knees, defenseless and exposed for a moment too long before he could reach for the gun at his thigh holster with his left hand.

Two things happened then. The man who had shot Clint lined up another shot, aiming at his head this time, but before he could pull the trigger he was falling backwards, a hole in his forehead and a red pool surrounding him in the span of a few seconds. Natasha ran from her position to Clint's side, pulling him up and dragging him with her, and she gave him one of her guns as she kept firing the one she held in her free hand. Two other men fell as they searched for a shelter, and though Clint was weighing heavily against her, he pushed through the pain and aimed with his left arm, taking another of their assailants down.

"How many?" he asked her roughly, the loss of blood and its metallic scent making him slightly light-headed.

"Only Montoya," Natasha replied as she helped him lean against a wall, holding onto him tightly as he lowered himself to a sitting position. "He ran inside one of the houses. I'll go after him."

Clint grabbed her wrist, his hold firm despite the pain in his arm. "Not alone," he said, his eyes dead serious. "You're _not_ going alone in there."

Natasha narrowed her eyes at him, irritated and impatient. The more they stayed here, the more opportunities Montoya had to escape. And despite Clint being a great shot, he was right-handed and aiming with his left arm would leave him vulnerable against their target; Natasha would have to look out for the both of them while trying to take Montoya down, and there were just too many what ifs and maybes in the equation.

The look Clint gave her told her that he _was_ very well aware of that, but had decided to ignore it as he stubbornly pushed himself off of the ground, his good hand pressing against the wall for balance. "At least let me check your arm," Natasha urged him, closing her fingers around his bicep to hold him. She assessed his injury, finding both entry and exit wounds, the bullet having gone through and through. It didn't seem that it had hit any major artery, but he was still losing a lot of blood and Clint looked paler than usual, almost paler than her, and Natasha had to think quickly. They were hidden from the street, but still exposed, and she had no idea where Montoya was. She was fairly sure that all of his men were down – they had counted a dozen when the assault began – but with Clint injured, it was down to her to find him which was going to be very difficult with her stubborn partner refusing to see that.

"I'm not gonna get myself killed, Nat," Clint told her out of the blue, as if reading her mind. "If it was down to you being injured, do you think I would leave you behind?" he asked.

Her fingers stilled as she tied his torn sleeve around his wound to stop the bleeding. She hadn't meant to leave him behind; she wanted to find him shelter and make sure he was well concealed before going hunting. But the one thing Natasha knew was that if their positions had been reversed, she would have never let him go alone either. The very thought shocked her; she'd been alone all her life, but the idea of leaving a man she'd met hardly five months ago was intolerable. "No, you wouldn't," she spoke softly, letting the truth of her words and his commitment to her sink in. "How do you want to do this?" she asked.

"We stay close. He could be anywhere, and he'll shoot on sight. We can't use the roof, so we'll have to check every house," he quickly assessed.

Natasha nodded, accepting her gun back as Clint took his. He was in more pain than he let show, Natasha could tell, but he was also just as stubborn as she was. Silently they wandered through the narrow street, covering for each other and watching out as they checked the houses, finding bodies of civilians that had had the misfortune of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Clint's brow furrowed and his jaw tensed, but he didn't say anything, shaking his head and focusing on their mission. It was Natasha who couldn't help the gasp that escaped her lips at the sight of a young girl with a bullet in her head.

She'd seen her fair share of horror ever since she joined the Red Room, and done plenty. She was the best in her class, outsmarting everyone else, going through torture without blinking an eye or letting a tear or a cry out, smiling smugly through everything to show she would not be bent nor broken. She'd basked in being called the strongest; in all these years, not once had she taken the time to think of what it was exactly she was doing, or the people she'd killed. But today, seeing that little girl who had to be the same age she'd been when the Red Room had recruited her, knowing that she was dead because she hadn't managed to take Montoya and his men down in time to avoid civilian casualties, Natasha felt her chest tighten and a heavy weight settle in her stomach.

Clint caught the look on her face and wordlessly he tugged at her elbow, moving her forward at his side. Natasha was thankful for his help, something that she would have loathed admitting, even to herself, even just a few weeks before. She followed him, covering for him as he ran from one house to another, until they'd narrowed their search to the last one in the street. They'd flattened the tires of Montoya and his men's cars earlier, and Montoya had to have noticed it by now and realized he had no way out unless he could outrun or outsmart them. Which made him arrogant and stupid, Natasha thought, which were two flaws most criminals had. But she also knew that they were at a disadvantage with Clint injured, so she stood at his side, entering the house first.

It all happened very fast then. There was a gunshot, the bullet missing Natasha by an inch as she bent quickly to dodge it, catching a glimpse of Montoya hiding behind the staircase, and then Clint was in front of her, shielding her with his body as he took a shot, and then another, the loud thump of Montoya falling down the stairs following. She almost wanted to slap him in the face for thinking she needed his protection, when she realized that he wasn't _protecting_ her but having her back, very much like when she'd shot the men after him and run to him.

She barely had time to see the body and the fatal wound at the man's neck when all she could focus on was Clint on the wooden floor, the faint color on his cheeks completely gone as he fell. She was at his side before she could even process what had happened, kneeling in the dirt, her fingers crimson with his blood as she realized that his wound had started bleeding again, the sleeve she'd tied around gushing red. She rolled him to his back, and her chest constricted again as she saw his eyes fluttering close. "Clint!" she almost shrieked, all but slapping him in the face for real this time. "Don't you dare do that to me now," she went on, the panic in her tone and running through her completely uncontrollable. She painted the camisole she wore under with his blood as her fingers fumbled around the buttons of her shirt and took it off, and she replaced the drenched fabric around his arm with it, applying pressure on his wound. It elicited a low groan from him, and Natasha breathed a sigh of relief. "Barton," she spoke his name roughly, her voice husky with the fear and the painful beat of her heart. "You stay awake. Open your eyes," she pressed, bringing her other hand to his face and cupping his cheek. "Open your damn eyes."

Clint flinched, but opening his eyes seemed to be too much of an effort. Natasha felt the panic overwhelm her again. What if she'd been wrong when assessing his injury earlier? What if it had only been the sheer adrenaline and stubbornness not to let her go alone that had pushed him to his feet and made him carry on, but the wound was more serious than she'd thought? As he lied on the floor, Natasha let her eyes take him in, finding tears in his clothes, scratches and wounds that mirrored the ones on her body, but nothing that seemed deep enough to make him pass out.

She reached for the satellite phone in her pocket, dialing Coulson's direct number. She listened to it ring three times before he answered. "_Coulson_."

"This is Romanoff. Clint's been shot," she said, not beating around the bush or going into details. She knew that Coulson would be even more worried than she was, having quickly noticed the bond between the two men than ran deeper than just a professional relationship between a handler and his agent. "He fainted, and I can't keep him awake. I can manage the bleeding, but I need a medic," she explained.

"_A team will be there in an hour. Go back to the safe house if it's not been compromised, and try to keep him stable until then_," Coulson tried to say in a calm voice, but failed. She could only guess how he had to feel, miles and countries away and unable to help his friend; it had to be close to the desperation _she_ currently felt. "_How are you?_" he then asked softly.

It took her aback, the gentle tone, the concern and the care. She had expected his anger, his panicked voice or even Coulson blaming her for Clint getting hurt – she sure _did_ blame herself – but she could have never imagined him being concerned about _her_. She was nothing to him but trouble Clint had brought and that he'd tried to deal with in the best way he could; he _shouldn't_ be concerned. Clint's caring nature she had learned to accept, despite not understanding what he saw in her or why he tried so hard; it had been easier as she'd come to care about him, too. But Coulson was another story. She'd hardly spoken to the man ever since that first day at S.H.I.E.L.D.'s HQ, and here he was, asking her if she was okay with that soft tone that could only mean she was one of them.

"I'm fine," Natasha replied, dismissing the pain in her ribs. She'd fought with one of their assailants and she'd felt the blade pierce her skin, but hadn't stopped to think about it or allow herself to feel the pain. She'd stopped letting herself feel a long time ago, and though she'd recently felt overwhelmed by unwanted feelings, she tried to tune them down as much as she could. "Please help him," she finished, almost in a whisper.

"_We're coming for you. Both of you_," Coulson added. "_Just hang on, Natasha_."

With that he hung up, and Natasha felt more alone than ever. The street was quiet, people either dead or too scared to make a sound, but she felt exposed. Clint was injured and slipping out of consciousness and she couldn't leave him alone, defenseless and vulnerable, to get to the car, but at the same time he was too heavy to carry. She cupped his jaw again, tracing her thumb over his cheekbone. "Clint," she spoke his name, "You have to wake up. We have to move." No reaction. She touched his neck with her fingers, breathing a sigh of relief when she still found a pulse, low but still beating. "Come on, Clint," she went on, the plea clear and desperate in her voice. "Please."

She felt him stir then, and Natasha felt like giving her thanks despite not believing in anything. She muttered something in Russian, caught between laughing in relief and crying. "'Tasha," Clint murmured, his eyes still closed, his lips barely moving that Natasha had to strain her ear to catch her name.

"Don't you dare _Tasha_ me, Barton," she said, pretending to be annoyed, but the huge smile spread on her lips said otherwise. Were he more conscious, Clint would probably make a joke or say something about her ridiculous smile and the way she was looking at him like he was her miracle; Natasha was almost glad for a second that he was still loopy and out of it. "Do you think you can get up?" she asked.

Clint blinked his lashes a few times, lifting a trembling hand to his face. "Did I faint?" he asked, an almost childish pout forming on his lips. "Don't tell me I fainted."

She couldn't help it; Natasha laughed. Only Clint would joke about being embarrassed of fainting when mere seconds ago she was afraid she was going to lose him. "Yes you did," she said, "and I'll tell everyone at S.H.I.E.L.D. that you needed a girl to rescue you."

"Aw, but you're not a typical girl," Clint said as she helped him sit up, an arm behind his back. "Don't punch me, I'm bleeding," he added immediately as she narrowed her eyes at him. "And don't think I didn't hear you," he continued. "I speak Russian now, remember? I don't think that calling me a _brainless stupid dog_ will help me feel better, you know."

She rolled her eyes. She'd punch him later; now, all Natasha could think about was getting out of there and keeping him conscious until the team arrived. It took them a moment, but she managed to help him up and with an arm at his waist and one of his looped around her neck they walked out, Clint leaning heavily at her side. They would be vulnerable if someone attacked them, but Natasha felt better now that Clint was conscious again despite his drowsiness. "Tell me a story," she told him as she dragged him along, hoping that it'd help keep him awake.

"What kind of story?" Clint asked, every word he let out a clear effort as he breathed heavily.

Natasha tried to shrug, finding it difficult with him leaning on her. "Just a story," she repeated. She could see their car, but they still had to drive for fifteen minutes at least to get back to their safe house and everything could happen until then. She _needed_ to keep him awake.

"The first time I saw a picture of you, I thought it was a shame that you were on the other side because you were too beautiful to die," he stated without any trace of a sexual innuendo. Natasha wondered if he even realized what he'd just said. "And when I first _saw_ you, I knew I was screwed."

"You knew I was better than you and could kill you off in my sleep?" she probed, almost teasingly.

"No," Clint shook his head, and then winced at the effort. "I knew _I_ could never kill you."

"Because I'm too beautiful?" she asked as they reached the car and she helped him lean against it as she unlocked the passenger door.

He looked up at her as she helped him sit with blurry eyes, a child's eyes filled with honesty and understanding and compassion. "Because I saw _you_," he said simply.

Natasha's eyes widened at his words, but she didn't push him to explain. He was barely conscious and probably didn't even know what he was saying. She closed the door behind him and got in the driver's seat, speeding off to the safe house. She kept asking him questions about nothing and everything to keep him awake, and twice she had to pull over and stop the car to rouse him. They finally got to the house, and she half helped, half carried him inside, lying him down on the bed they'd shared since their arrival three days prior.

She gave him water, a hand carefully tucked behind his neck as he gulped the glass down, and then she went to the bathroom, looking for everything she would need to clean his injury. She took a look at the clock in the living-room, hoping that the team Coulson had sent would be there soon. She'd learned to deal with physical pain because the Red Room never wasted resources on a little scratch or a cut; even when she took her first bullet, they'd let her deal with it on her own, and Natasha remembered tasting blood in her mouth and wanting to throw up as she'd extracted the bullet and stitched herself up. But she hadn't given them the pleasure of showing any sign of weakness. She'd swallowed the bile and the blood, and shown up for training the following day like nothing had happened.

For Clint though, she wanted the best treatment, and she knew she couldn't give it to him. Once she had everything gathered, she went back to the living-room where Clint had managed to sit up awkwardly and looked paler than before. She put the bowl of water she'd filled down, and carefully, she untied the fabric around his bicep. Clint grimaced, his jaw tensed as he looked down at the wound. "Sexy, huh?" he said.

"Very," Natasha snorted before she focused on cleaning his wound. It started bleeding again, and she put pressure on it with a soaked sponge. She was at least glad that the bullet had gone through and through, because she had the feeling that Clint would be less obedient if she had needed to use tweezers to get it out. "How are you holding up?" she asked as she washed away the dirt from his skin.

"I'm not gonna die on you, Nat," Clint said, and she wondered if it was for her sake or his.

"Not what I asked," Natasha replied softly. "You don't have to play tough with me."

Clint smiled. "Isn't it what you always do with me, though?" he asked, tilting his head to meet her eyes. His eyes went wide all of a sudden. "God, Nat, you're bleeding," he exclaimed.

Natasha looked down at herself, following his gaze, and found that the hem of her camisole was soaked with blood – _hers_. "That's nothing," she said, focusing again on his wound.

Clint reached out, wrapping his fingers around her wrist. "Bullshit," he said. "Jesus, Natasha, let me see," he almost growled, concern dripping in his voice. Natasha frowned, but let him. He lifted her camisole with one hand, finding the wound that had started bleeding again. "You got stabbed," he said, baffled. "Fuck, Nat, why didn't you tell me?" he asked, a hint of anger in his tone.

"It's nothing," Natasha insisted. "_You_ were shot."

"And you were _stabbed_," Clint stretched the word. "You should be lying down. This is not a one way thing, for Christ's sake," he went on, shrugging his arm off as she tried to wrap a bandage around his wound. He grabbed the sponge in the bowl, and applied it against her abdomen. "You're supposed to tell me when this kind of things happens, especially when I'm too out of it to realize it in the first place," he muttered under his breath.

"You saved my life," she said before she could think it over. She owed him a debt, and maybe she'd started paying it back today.

Clint shook his head. "Is this what this is about?" he asked, incredulous. "I didn't save your life. I was sent to kill you and I _didn't_," he corrected. "You don't need to let yourself bleed to death to repay me."

Natasha didn't argue. They would probably always disagree on that subject, she thought. At first she'd been confused and angry because she didn't understand why Clint had spared her life; but now she couldn't help but think of him as a savior. It might not have been a role he wanted to take on, and he didn't seem to ask for her gratitude, but she couldn't help it now.

She let him tend to her injury, and then helped him lie down again. Despite his reassurance that he was fine, Natasha could see how tired he was. She sat down by his side, his hand on her lap, watching over him as he rested.

It was only after the team got there and took care of Clint that she allowed one of the medics to take a look at her wound.

* * *

The Red Room didn't know that such things as an infirmary existed. Natasha was always expected for her post-assignment debriefs, no matter in which state she was.

Coulson visited them after personally requesting that they stayed at least one night in the sick room, much to both their dismay. Clint had insisted that he was fine, and Natasha had said _he_ wasn't but that _she_ was and didn't need to be watched over. Clint had snorted, nodding at the bandage wrapped around her abdomen, and Coulson had put an end to their bickering by giving them the direct order to rest and stay put.

Natasha had wrinkled her nose. "I don't need it, boss," she'd said, glancing at the IV linked to her arm.

Coulson had smiled. He'd thought Clint was crazy when he'd brought her back with him, but time and patience had proven that his agent had made a smart call. He'd heard the desperation in her tone when Natasha had told him Clint had been shot; seen the concern on her features when they'd finally gotten back to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s HQ and she'd refused to leave his side. Phil Coulson had known then that she was and would _always_ be loyal to her partner.

Hearing her call him _boss_ meant _a lot_.

Coulson sat at the feet of Clint's bed, putting a hand on his leg. "How are you feeling, Clint?" he asked in a quiet voice, friend to friend, brother to brother.

"I feel like I got shot," Clint shrugged. His right arm was in a sling, and his other superficial wounds had been tended to. He was more tired than he was hurting, and for that he was grateful.

"What about you, Natasha?" Coulson then asked, turning to look at her. Despite her defensive stance, arms crossed over her chest, he could see the way she kept them above her wound and flinched when she moved.

"Barton snored all night," she just said, wrinkling her nose. "That was more of a pain than being stabbed."

"Aw, Nat," Clint snorted, grinning at her. "I was shot, remember? Cut me some slack."

Coulson looked at them like a father who knew he had to love his children but still thought they were idiots. "Director Fury called. He congratulated the both of you for the mission."

"Are we gonna get a medal?" Clint laughed.

Coulson rolled his eyes, ignoring his comment. "Taking Montoya down was our main goal. But you exceeded expectations by taking his men and members of the local organization down, too. I think you two deserve some time off."

"And are we getting paid for that?" Clint asked, smiling at his handler. "I mean, I'm almost paler than Natasha. I think we deserve a week in the Bahamas or something."

"I don't want to go to the Bahamas," Natasha said. "All I want is a hot bath and red wine."

"I could lower my standards and agree with that, I suppose," Clint said with a shrug, the corner of his lips twitching up in a smile for her.

Coulson smiled to himself, watching them unabashedly flirt – or, well, Clint being his usual flirt and Natasha pretending to roll her eyes. He wondered if they even realized what they were saying. Five months ago Clint had been sent to kill her, and now here they were, discussing what they were going to do with their time off as if it was natural for them to spend it _together_. It should have alarmed Coulson, but it didn't. He'd tried to partner Clint up for years now, and it had never worked; so what if he was flirting with an international assassin? She made him smile, and against all odds, she was attached and loyal to him, more than she even seemed to be aware of.

They were good for each other.

Coulson left them after saying that he didn't want to see them anywhere near the gym or the firing range for at least a week, chuckling to himself as he heard Natasha mutter in Russian that she wasn't a big baby like Clint.

"How are you _really_ doing?" Clint asked her after Coulson left, sitting up straight and balancing his legs off of his bed to go sit on Natasha's. "No lies, please," he pressed softly, gently cupping her calf in his hand.

She looked down at his hand, then up at him, meeting his eyes. "I'm sore, but nothing I can't handle," she answered honestly.

Clint frowned. He either frowned or smiled a lot around her, Natasha had noticed. It was almost cute, but it made her uncomfortable sometimes, seeing how much he cared and how it pained him when she said or did some things as if she didn't care about her life. She didn't, not really. All she'd cared about for so long was to survive; she didn't know how to _live_. But then he would take her out to that diner he liked and make a point of making her taste just about every milkshake flavor, or spend the night listening to his favorite bands and telling her all about them, and Natasha felt like living wasn't that bad.

That was when she'd think of him as a _savior_; he'd given her a chance to realize that her life mattered. With that realization had dawned another, that _his_ life mattered to her, _too_. That he meant something to her, beyond the debt she owed him.

"I wouldn't be against a burger and a beer," she told him after a moment with a little grin.

Clint smiled back. "_Now_ I know you're just trying to make me feel better," he laughed. "How about I get a burger and a beer and you have that red wine you wanted earlier?" he suggested, cocking an eyebrow at her.

"Are you suggesting that we mix up drugs and alcohol, agent Barton?" she asked, her eyes widening a little. "I don't think that's what Coulson meant by getting some _rest_."

"Because you listen to Phil now?" Clint asked, grinning. He could see she resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him, and he laughed. For someone who was famous for killing viciously, Natasha could be such a child sometimes – and he liked getting to know this side of her. "I'm suggesting that we take a well-deserved break. And I've got something to show you."

Natasha's eyes lit up. "Does it involve getting me off of the IV?" she asked, casting a nasty glance at the tube linked to the inside of her elbow. "I don't like the way it's making me feel," she whispered in a rare confession.

Clint gave her a sympathetic look. "Me neither," he said. "I get dreams I can't wake up from." He paused, averting his gaze for a moment. "I hope I didn't wake you up last night," he said, an apology in his voice.

He _did_, but Natasha wouldn't tell him. Part of her wanted to; wanted to get to know him better and press the issue. But she felt like she'd intruded his privacy and gotten to see a side of him that he might not have been ready or wanted to share with her. She'd had trouble sleeping the night before, unlike Clint who had dozed off quickly after they'd hooked him on his IV; so when he started tossing and turning, she'd felt herself grow more alert and desperate to protect him from enemies she couldn't see.

She'd heard him call out names, his voice husky from sleep and fear. _Barney_ seemed to terrorize him; _Phil_ was the one he called out to for help. Natasha had gotten up and padded to his bed, gently smoothing his hair that was slick with sweat, and then he'd spoken _her name_ as he calmed down, just a low whisper, like a prayer. She had pulled her hand away, thinking she'd woken him up, but he never opened his eyes; Clint's features had relaxed as he said her name again, and she'd resumed stroking his hair until the crease between his brows disappeared completely. Natasha had gone back to bed after that, listening in his quiet breathing for another hour before allowing herself to surrender to sleep.

"I slept like a baby," she lied, giving him a small smile. Clint's furrowed brow relaxed, and she felt better. She wasn't ready to share her own demons, so it wouldn't be fair to ask him about his and considering the relief she could see on his face, he wasn't ready to do so now either. One day, maybe, she thought. "What about this surprise?" she asked, switching to a safer topic.

"It's not really a surprise," Clint said with a shrug. "Just something I want to share with you."

Her heart constricted, but Natasha welcomed the pain. It was something completely new to her, hurting but in a _good_ way. She wanted to ask him _why_; why he did all of this, why he was so kind and genuine in a world of evil and lies, why he tried to save that light inside of her that she knew _couldn't_ exist. But she didn't say anything. Instead, she pulled at the IV and disconnected it.

It stung a little, and for once, she allowed herself to grimace at the small discomfort.

That felt good, too.

_Feeling_.

* * *

For all their training as soldier and spy, they hardly took three steps out of the infirmary before getting caught by the staff. Clint could walk but the throb in his arm still made him dizzy at times, and Natasha was very slow, careful not to pull at the stitches she had needed after all. Luckily they were caught by a medic that Clint knew well and who understood that they needed some fresh air. He agreed to drive them wherever they wanted as long as they left with a bag full of pain killers and promised to actually take them or call if one of them got worse. They dropped by their quarters to gather their things, and less than half an hour later, the young medic dropped them in front of a building downtown.

As her feet touched the ground, Natasha realized for the first time that she was _free_. She'd spent the last five months at Clint's side, training with him, sharing meals, getting to know him, and though no one had told her she couldn't go anywhere, she'd settled on following him wherever he went. He had taken her out a few times, but this was the first time it really dawned on her that there was a life outside of S.H.I.E.L.D. and that she had the right to go explore it, with or without Clint.

_With_ Clint sounded nice, though.

She followed him as he climbed the stairs leading to the building, typed a code at the entry and held the door for her. They then took an elevator to the last floor, and Clint guided her to a flight of stairs that led to the rooftop. Natasha gasped at the view, taking in the city beneath their feet. "Impressive, huh?" Clint said, cocky grin on his lips as if it was his doing, a simple snap of his fingers producing all this restless beauty.

"Is this how you do it?" Natasha asked, leaning at the edge of the roof and admiring the city lights. "You take girls up there, jump from one roof to another, tell them about how this is your last night before being deployed and their smile is what you want to come home to because you want to know that the best part of your life is still ahead of you?" she went on, embellishing a gag.

Clint's eyes lit up as his mouth stretched into a huge smile. "Natasha Romanoff," he started, "did you just quote _Pearl Harbor_?" he asked, chuckling.

Natasha's eyes widened for a second before she schooled her face. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said, turning away from him.

"Jesus, you _so_ did, Nat," Clint laughed, looping his good arm around her neck. She tried to shrug him off but Clint just let out a chuckle again, and Natasha surrendered, deciding not to kill him just _yet_. "You're something, you know that?" he said with a smile.

Natasha rolled her eyes. "That's your best pick-up line, Barton?" she mocked him.

"Says the girl who watches American chick flicks and loves them despite pretending she doesn't," Clint countered easily. "Maybe you're a typical girl, after all."

Natasha ducked from under his arm, resisting the urge to punch him. "I'm not a _girl_," she hissed, "I could take you down easily, Hawkeye."

Clint chuckled. "What is it with you thinking that it's an insult when I say you're a girl?" he asked, leaning next to her. "I'm very well aware of the fact that you're a grown woman and that you could probably kill me in five hundred different ways, you know? It doesn't mean that you can't enjoy terrible movies and rocky road and the world's greatest archer's pick-up lines."

Despite herself, Natasha laughed. "Who said I was enjoying your pick-up lines? Maybe I'm just worried you'll spend your life all alone because you're terrible at flirting?"

"I see you're not denying the part about movies and ice-cream and me being the best," he smiled. "And I won't be all alone. I got you, Tasha," he said matter-of-factly, bumping his good shoulder with hers.

Natasha wanted to roll her eyes, she really did; she was Nat or Tasha and everything in between in his mouth and she didn't remember giving him permission to be so familiar. Giving someone a nickname was an intimate, affectionate habit that Natasha had never taken with anyone, and between Elena, Anya or Maria, no one had called her anything but _theirs_. A trophy, a doll, a weapon. Anything they'd wanted her to be. Clint didn't do that. He'd asked her her real name, and then given her the chance to choose who she wanted to become. He had started calling her Nat before she could realize it and though it was strange at first, this fondness he had for her, Natasha had grown to appreciate it. It was nice, knowing that she wasn't Black Widow to someone, that there was at least one person who saw her and not her ledger.

"Didn't you say something about red wine earlier?" she asked, changing the subject. Although she'd teased him about it, the idea of a picnic on that rooftop was definitely something she could contemplate. Not with him, of course; the idea was nice, that's all. It wasn't often that she allowed herself to have such thoughts – she hadn't exactly been raised to think about romance and happy endings. Everything and everyone had to serve a purpose, and there was no room for anything else.

Clint seemed to believe that it was okay to be something else than just a soldier or a spy.

She wanted to believe it, too.

His brow furrowed a little, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. "About that red wine…" he started, trailing off. "Maybe I lied a little about that. I don't know. It's been ages since I've been here, there's probably a dead rat in my fridge."

"This is your apartment building?" Natasha asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, yeah," Clint shrugged. "You thought I had the keys to just any building to enjoy the view from the rooftop?" he teased.

"Of course not," Natasha replied. She hadn't thought about anything, really. It was stupid, now that she did think about it. She'd followed him blindly without knowing where they were going, and not once did she stop and think about how out of character for her it was. Natasha liked control; she liked knowing and understanding things, even if the Red Room had always kept secrets from her. But what they didn't tell her, she tried to find out, probing, blinking her lashes, playing innocent and lying. Clint, for some reason, she trusted almost blindly.

Five months ago, she would have found that dangerous.

Three months ago, she still knew it was dangerous, but she couldn't find it in her to care as they sat down in that coffee shop where the waitress knew Clint as Adam and kept refilling his plate with pancakes and maple syrup, telling him he was too skinny. Natasha had poked at his pancake, forking a little piece in her mouth, and he'd just sat there, smiling at her, and though it went against everything she was and knew, she'd just enjoyed the moment. She couldn't be wary of a man with a smile that shined so bright.

Today, she knew she was a _fool_. But fools seemed to be far happier than she was, so what was so appealing with being guarded and wise?

She followed him again as he led her to the stairs, and then to the last floor where he dug out his keys from his pocket and opened the door to the apartment at the end of the hall. "Welcome to my man cave," he grinned as he held the door out for her.

Natasha entered first, stopping after a few steps to take the inside of Clint's apartment in. She smiled as she realized it was everything she had imagined. Even if he didn't spend as much time as he liked there, it still felt warm and lively. She could easily see him sprawled on his couch, feet propped on the coffee table and a beer in hand, some stray dog curling at his side. He just had this thing about him that screamed he was a sucker for strays, with this instinct to protect those he thought who needed it the most. Wasn't it what he had done with her, treating her like a wounded animal, bringing her home with him, a hand outstretched in the darkness?

Clint went to the kitchen, fetching a bottle of wine and putting it on the coffee table before going back to pick two glasses. "I know this couch looks like it has flees all over it, but it's actually pretty damn comfortable," he said as he sat down, his good arm resting on the back of the old leather couch and the other at his side. "_Actually_, there might be flees. There was this one dog once…"

Natasha smiled to herself. Clint could be so predictable and yet still so mysterious at the same time. "I'm not holding your hand if you need a vaccine," she told him as she joined him. He snorted and held out the bottle for her and she opened it, pouring them a glass each. "Merlot?" she said, her eyes widening in surprise as she read the tag. "I'm impressed. I was expecting cheap wine from you."

"Aw, that hurts, Nat," Clint replied, giving her a pout. "You should know better than to underestimate me by now." He clinked his glass with hers with a wink. "To wrong assumptions," he toasted.

"I made one mistake," Natasha whined. "You're still predictable in so many ways, Barton."

"Yeah?" Clint taunted, an amused spark in his pale green eyes. "Go on, do tell," he went on.

Natasha curled her legs beneath her, getting more comfortable as she took a sip of her wine. "You're Coulson's favorite," she started.

"That was easy. I'm _everybody's_ favorite," Clint replied easily.

"If that's what you like to believe," Natasha chuckled. "You men don't like to admit it, but you mean a lot to each other and that man would hold your hand when vicious Martha stabs you without even mocking you."

"Phil's a big softie," Clint admitted with a silly grin. "That's what true friendship is about, Nat," he added. "Holding each other's hand. Drinking wine and talking about our feelings."

"I'll just take the wine, then," Natasha said, a sly smile on her lips. "You care about his opinion more than anybody else's. When we were in Paris, you kept talking about how _he_ would understand. You hardly mentioned Fury."

"That's because Fury doesn't have any friends," Clint said. "He has a lot of enemies. Plenty of people who think he's a legend, for sure, but no friends. Kind of like you, actually. And that's a compliment, sort of," he added quickly as she cocked an eyebrow at him. "Is that all you got, Romanoff?" he teased.

Natasha shook her head. "No," she said, almost arrogant. "You're a flirt, but you're not a jerk. You flirt because it's simple and fun, but you're the kind of guy who'd fit nicely in that white picket fence American dream. You're a good guy deep down, Clint Barton, savior of lost puppies and damsels in distress," she finished with an overly sweet smile.

Clint bowed a little. "I'm a real-life Prince Charming, what can I say?" he grinned. "You got me, Nat. I got a thing for the lost and the hopeless. That's why I like you." The confession took Natasha by surprise, and she took a moment too long to school her features, which Clint noticed. "And _you_ are not used to being told that kind of things," he said in a quiet voice.

Natasha shrugged, putting her glass back on the coffee table, temporarily hiding her face from him as she replied. "My lovely disposition isn't what the Red Room liked about me, no," she said.

"You're not _lovely_," Clint commented, and though it could have sounded harsh to anybody else, Natasha could hear the underlying compliment behind his words. "You're more like…a forest fire, you know?" he tried. "Strong and fierce and you could kill us all, but we just stand there and look at you because we just can't look away."

"That was deep," Natasha teased him, despite finding the description fitting. She far preferred being called strong than beautiful or all these other terms in between that men usually used to describe her. Clint had said she was beautiful, sure, but he hadn't put it in a way that it was meant to be the best thing about her. Strong and fierce she embraced gladly.

"That's the wine," Clint shrugged. "Gets me all deep and poetic. That's why I like beer better." He put his glass down too, turning to face her. "Not that I'm not having fun, but I'm also starving. How about burgers and beer?" he suggested.

She gave him that look that she used every time he was being _too_ American, whenever he had bacon for breakfast or screamed at the TV as if the players on the field could hear him. "Tomorrow we're going shopping and I'm putting you on a diet for a week," Natasha sighed.

"How very domestic of you, Tasha," Clint teased her, reaching out to bump her chin with his knuckles. When she narrowed her eyes at him, he held up his injured arm in defense. "I got shot, remember?" he grinned.

"I was stabbed but I could still kick your ass," Natasha countered, aiming her punch at his thigh instead. It was a light punch, more of a brush, and damn she was going soft on him and they both knew it.

It was easier to joke about it than to dwell with her emotions, and allow the sheer panic that had overwhelmed her at the sight of him bleeding on the floor to come back. The paleness of his skin and the pool of red growing around him was a vision she would never get out of her head; but the very idea of losing him, of being helpless and useless as he slipped away, had kept her up for hours the night before. The pain in her abdomen she could deal with; she would have gone through it all over again if she could have taken the man who had shot Clint first before he could aim at her partner.

_Her partner_.

It was the first time that Natasha really meant it as she thought the words. Clint had called her his partner many times; had offered his friendship, and put his career in jeopardy to bring her back to S.H.I.E.L.D. and make an agent out of her. He had stepped in front of her the day before, risking his life to protect hers, without hesitating.

It had taken almost losing him to realize that he meant just as much to her, too. He wasn't just someone she felt gratitude towards. He wasn't the savior she'd made him to be, almost unreal, just the idea of a miracle – he was _real_ and human and he wore his flaws upon his sleeve unabashedly, smiling when she called him an idiot, admiring her strengths and empathizing with her weaknesses. Natasha had lived her life burying them beneath the ground and she was a mess; together they formed a bigger mess, both stubborn and conflicted and damaged but with all of her and all of him laid out together, maybe something good could come out of it.

Wine made her deep too, apparently.

Clint felt the change in the air as her hand brushed him, but he didn't push. They were both raw and exhausted and though their little game had started as a friendly competition of who was the best observer, it could escalate quickly. He'd seen the look on her face as she hovered over him in that house, seen the color vanish from her fair skin and heard the desperate plea in her voice as she'd begged him to keep fighting; he had scared her, and if there was one thing that Clint knew about Natasha, it was that she didn't know how to deal with her emotions.

Tonight wasn't the moment to push her and make her face them again.

Instead, Clint showed her the way to the bathroom, letting Natasha indulge into her guilty pleasure of a hot bath with a glass of wine. He waited in his room until he was sure she had managed to get into the bathtub, hearing the soft thud of her body gliding in the water, and he left, giving her some privacy. He had a sense that she loathed being touched and checked out by doctors as much as he did, but he'd noticed the way she favored her left side, the wound low at her abdomen on her right side surely throbbing. But Clint also knew that she wouldn't take any more painkillers; he took their drugs out of the bag the medic had given him and lined the bottles of pills on his kitchen counter, promising himself he would take them before going to bed and try to make Natasha do so too.

He then picked up his phone and ordered them burgers and a salad for Natasha, smiling to himself at the thought of that disgusted look she sometimes gave him when they shared a meal together. It had become a recurring habit, almost a tradition by now, that the first one up in the morning would wake the other for breakfast. Even if she would never admit it, Natasha wasn't ready to face other agents on her own without Clint at her side. Clint had tried to help her with that, telling her again and again that she was one of _them_ now, but Natasha didn't believe it just yet; she couldn't understand how people could forgive and forget that she'd killed so many. So it'd become their routine, sharing every meal, Clint making a point of getting her to eat more and at regular intervals. Natasha was slender and strong, but he found her too skinny, the consequence of being taught that food needed to be earned for years or being deprived of it if she hadn't excelled at a class or a mission. In the past five months he'd already witnessed some progress on that front, her ribs and hipbones not as prominent as they used to be, tender flesh giving her body curves she hadn't shown in her frail state in that dark alley in Paris.

Once he'd placed his order, Clint went to his small balcony, breathing in the night. He enjoyed the peace and quiet of the city between dusk and dawn, the slow motion, the calm after the storm of the day – and what a day they'd had. Time was such a fleeting concept to them. The morning before he had woken up in Sao Paolo, the soft light of the sun filtering through the curtains warming his skin. He'd opened his eyes to find Natasha curled in a ball at his side, small and peaceful and innocent, her blonde hair spread on her pillow and her hand tucked beneath her cheek. Hours later she'd helped him into the very same bed, tending to his bleeding wound. Clint had dozed off at some point, and when he'd woken up, they were back at S.H.I.E.L.D.'s HQ – all in the span of twelve hours or so. And now it was night again, and Clint could feel the exhaustion pull him under.

It was nice, getting some time off to level out. He'd been through much worse, but he was grateful to get a few days where he could just be himself.

Having some company for once _definitely_ was a nice change.

* * *

_to be continued_


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N**: I would like to thank you all again for the lovely feedback for this story, it truly means a lot. I hope you continue to enjoy this story as it unfolds. :) Real-life is starting to get in the way of writing, so I may not be able to update until the end of the month. Hopefully I'll be able to get back on a proper schedule after that.

* * *

Natasha came out of the bathroom shortly after their food was delivered, looking more stunning with her newly blonde hair down in wet curls and overly girly pajamas than when she was all dolled up – not that Clint would ever tell her that. He watched her as she carefully sat on the couch, all the indication he needed to know that she was in pain despite pretending that she was fine.

"You're staring," she said quietly, stealing his beer from him and taking a small sip before handing it back. "You Americans really have no taste," she muttered.

"You have vodka for breakfast," Clint countered easily with a roll of his eyes.

"I do not," Natasha replied, giving him her _you're an idiot_ look for the hundredth time. "And you're _still_ staring. You need to stop."

Clint shrugged. "I'll stop when _you_ stop pretending you're fine when you're obviously _not_." She narrowed her eyes at him, but he just smiled. "I'm not scared of you, Romanoff," he said, "You can glare at me all you want."

Natasha sighed, leaning against the armrest and stretching her legs on the couch, short of brushing Clint's thigh. "Look Clint, I'm fine, okay?" she said tiredly. "What do you want me to say? That it _hurts_?" she asked, her tone reluctant just upon uttering the word. "Okay, it does hurt. But it's not the first time I've been stabbed, and it probably won't be the last. So it's best to suck it up."

"Because you've had worse, it doesn't mean you have to suffer in silence," Clint replied simply. He sure didn't like staying in sickbay either, but he wasn't stupid; he'd tempted fate a hell lot and he wore the scars to prove it, mapping stories on his body and soul. Phil was the one who had taught him to trust someone and let them help; it was his role to do the same for Natasha.

Natasha ignored him, focusing on her salad, and Clint didn't push. He wasn't one to share easily either – even Phil didn't know half of the things he'd done, or if he knew, then Clint hadn't been the one to tell him – but Natasha had been all alone for so long and Clint knew from experience that it was no way to live. It wasn't much of a life sometimes, the path he'd taken, but he knew now that there was at least one person who cared about him. Phil was the first real friend he'd had in a long time, and Clint knew he could never be thankful enough for everything the man had done for him. Everybody deserved to have a friend like this.

They ate their food in companionable silence, reveling in the peace of the aftermath, those fleeting hours or days before they would have to leave the quiet, warm comfort of being who they were and go back to fighting endless battles, stepping into somebody else's shoes for God only knew how long. When he first joined S.H.I.E.L.D., Clint had embraced it, delving into aliases, requesting long-term operations that allowed him to forget himself as he became someone else. He'd needed it; needed to forget about his past, the things he'd done, and the unbearable guilt and remorse that came along. Now, after years using his skills to atone his sins, Clint thought it was about time to _try_ and let some of that go. He was never the optimist – what exactly had gone _right_ in his life for him to be? – but finding someone else who knew what it was like made him want to give it a try.

It was strange, that need he felt to probe and push and get Natasha to open up. It wasn't who he was. Clint was a man of few words, bottling everything inside, preferring being alone – alone had _always_ been better than the people who'd pretended to care and still hurt or left him. But now he was no longer alone, and it felt nice, nice enough to believe that this partnership had potential and could lead somewhere.

Wine couldn't be blamed for that.

He had seen it in her eyes in that dark alley on the night that everything changed for the both of them. He'd seen it again, the morning after, when he'd woken up to the deadliest Soviet agent sleeping soundly at his side, curled up in a little ball of white and red, her hand curled around his shirt. Felt it in the warmth of her hand in his on the plane home, the slight tremor in her body as they entered S.H.I.E.L.D. and were separated. He'd seen and felt and known it time and time again; even when she was wary and secretive and scared, even when she was distant and cold and angry. He had known it then and he _still_ knew it now – _this_ could work. Not only could it work, but it could be great.

It _was_.

He had heard of her skills and strengths before meeting her and Clint had gotten to witness them as they trained and sparred together, learning from her but also teaching her, reaching a point where they could go at it for a long time because they knew how to block and counter each other's moves. Clint was strong and athletic, with fast reflexes and exceptional dexterity, and Natasha was an expert in martial arts, her years as a ballerina having made her agile and incredibly bendy. She could reach out and knock Clint out even when it seemed like he had her pinned down, and he could easily hold her captive with just an arm snugly wrapped around her. They were both talented hand-to-hand fighters and expert marksmen, and their training sessions had become an attraction for fellow agents who came to watch them, betting on who would bend the other to their will first.

Sao Paolo had proved Clint that they were just as efficient together on the field.

But it wasn't only about that between them, the perfect combination of their skills and how they complemented one another. He _liked_ her. He _got_ her. He smiled, laughed, had fun around her – and she did, too. Clint felt connected to her like he'd never felt before with anyone else. He trusted her, and had trusted her very early on, probably ever since that very first night. Clint remembered telling her he had seen _her_ when Natasha had asked him to tell her a story, and he had meant it. Natasha hadn't meant to, but she'd let him in those walls she had built around her for just a split second that night. She was guarded and fearful, but he'd seen the rawness of her soul. She was a good actress, thin disguise and perfectly delivered lines, but they didn't fool him.

They were too much alike.

Sometimes Clint wondered if it was the reason why Coulson and Fury had chosen him, if they'd intended for this to happen all along. Natasha was skilled and lethal, but so was he, and if they'd really fought it would have ended in a bloodbath; but they'd both surrendered before starting, seeing in each other _something_ that no one else did. That something Clint couldn't quite _name_; hope or redemption, second chance or mercy, he didn't know. All he knew was that they were fire and ice, hot and cold, opposites but not.

It sounded like a movie.

They were supposed to be enemies, but they weren't. And if they weren't enemies, then they might have fallen in love.

That part was definitely _because_ of the wine, Clint thought as he shook his head. Love wasn't for people like them; they could have lust and physical attraction, trust and commitment as partners, but _not_ love. _Why_ was he even thinking about that? The very idea was ridiculous. Clint was pretty sure he'd seen that movie anyway.

He turned his focus back to his partner, and met her green eyes fixed on him. She was looking at him with that ever intrigued gaze, soft and unsure, as if waiting – _expecting_ – for him and everything to disappear; the hand in the dark, the promise, the kindness, this new life. Clint couldn't blame her. Every time he'd had a sense of belonging, it'd been snatched away from him; Natasha had never belonged anywhere, only belonged _to_ people using her. It wasn't easy to accept the idea that not everybody was the same. "What are you thinking about?" he asked, expecting her to ignore him again.

To his surprise, she didn't. Natasha put her plate down, delicately wiped her mouth with a napkin, and then said, very quietly, "You." She looked up at him then, almost daring him to say something, throw one of his jokes or terrible pick-up lines. Clint raised a surprised eyebrow, and she let out a soft chuckle. "I was thinking that you were something, Clint Barton," she smiled.

"Something, huh?" Clint grinned at her. "Is that your best pick-up line, Romanoff? 'Cause it's not really working on me, darling."

Instead of punching him for the silly endearment or his arrogance, Natasha's smile just grew bigger and seductive. "_Oh_, but I don't need pick-up lines," she all but purred, stretching her leg just enough to make contact with him, brushing her foot against his thigh. "I don't even need to bat my lashes. I just need to be whoever you want me to be, and that's it, you're mine," she explained simply. "Show a man what he expects to see, and I promise you, he _won't_ look beneath the surface."

Her smile turned sad for a brief second, revealing how she truly felt about her little lesson in seduction. How old had she been when she first started this, Clint wondered. Thirteen, fourteen maybe? Far too young to know how to bend a man to her will and be forced to do it. The vision of her lying in his bed and only wearing his shirt, asking with those curious eyes if he wanted to sleep with her, came to his mind. She had asked because it was everything she knew. Between the sinner and the saint, it was easy to guess which most men preferred.

It made Clint sick.

She was an assassin, and that was the only thing most people saw about her, the KGB and S.H.I.E.L.D. both. Was he really the _only_ one who saw past that? "And what is _Natasha_ like?" he asked in a gentle voice, holding her gaze as he saw her trying to avert hers.

She could glare at him when she was pissed off, or pin him to the mat with a knife at his throat without blinking her lashes; but Natasha still couldn't hold his gaze when he was treating her like she was a _person_ and not a killing machine, Clint had found out. They needed to work on that, because between the angel and the devil, the seductress and the prude, the assassin and the victim, the only one that he really wanted to get to know was _her_.

Which was surely something that no one had _ever_ said to her before.

Natasha frowned a little, realizing that it wasn't his concern or kindness that unsettled her the most, but the fact that she _didn't_ have an answer for him. Once stripped of her weapons and ledger, who was she? Nothing but a rat lab with shrapnel of memories that belonged to the hundred different women she'd been, but never hers. She wasn't even sure that Natalia had been her real name; so how the hell could Clint expect her to tell him what _Natasha_ was like.

"Nat," Clint called softly.

"See, you say _that_ like it _means_ something," she said, reaching for the bottle of wine and refilling her glass before leaning back against the couch, her legs folded against her chest. "_Nat_. You call me Nat and Tasha and you make me pancakes and you give me your hand and you take me out," she started enumerating, "You're not scared of me and you don't hate me and I don't _understand_ why. Why?" she asked again, turning haunted green eyes to him, begging for an answer that finally made sense. "You say you see me but _what_ do you see?"

He spoke before thinking, and for once the right words came out. Maybe he'd known them all along like the lyrics of a song, ringing in his head to the tune of the music. "I see the good in you," he said softly. "I see what you refuse to see. You're _not_ evil. You're not what they made you do. You had no choice."

"I did, though," Natasha spoke in a low voice, her eyes avoiding his again, focusing on the deep crimson liquid. "I could have ended it all…"

"That's bullshit," Clint said, the harshness of his words softened by his tone, almost tender. "No one is gonna blame you for killing people instead of putting a bullet through your brain," he said firmly. "You were used. You were manipulated. You _deserved_ an out. _That's_ what I saw," he insisted.

"You're a fool," Natasha just replied, big lump in her throat, stupid tears welling in her eyes that she refused to let fall. She didn't even know why she was crying. She wasn't sad or angry or happy; she just felt like everything was a lot all of a sudden. Breathing, thinking, doing her best not to fall apart. She had never really had time to feel; when a mission was over, another started, and she shed an alias to step in somebody else's shoes. When Elena cried, Natasha just had to fake the tears. When Katrina moaned, Natasha tried her best to sound convincing despite the man's clumsiness and awkwardness. _She_ never felt; she was told to feel.

Being able to feel was overwhelming.

Clint leaned over, taking her glass from her and putting it on the coffee table. "Maybe I am," he replied, "I've been told before. But would the deadly, vicious _Black_ _Widow_ almost cry upon the idea of someone giving her a chance?" he asked, his pale green, almost grey eyes boring into hers and daring him to contradict him. "You're not your mask, Natasha. No matter how many of them you wear."

She felt the first tear fall, and then another, and Natasha hated herself for it. She had never felt this vulnerable before, but it seemed like that was what Clint did to her – _he_ made her vulnerable. It felt like somebody had gotten inside her and ripped her apart, opening her heart and her wounds despite the armor she'd crafted so carefully for years so that nobody could hurt her. Many men had tried to break her before, her body and her spirit, but none had ever succeeded. And then here _he_ was, stupid stranger in the night, stupid Agent Clint Barton with S.H.I.E.L.D. of all people, waltzing into her life and giving her his hand, and taking something in return that he never asked.

Natasha had seen that movie, _too_. It was the typical story of boy meets girl, except there was nothing typical about being two master assassins tangled in a web of blood and lies. But in the grand scheme of things, it had worked out just the same. He'd wandered into her life uninvited and unwanted, and he'd done something so terribly dumb, trusting her and lowering his weapon, sparing her life and saving it at the same time. Cruel people Natasha could deal with; good people she just didn't know what to do with, and they apparently had a way to worm their way inside her heart and root there despite her best efforts.

No one had ever warned her about that.

"Fuck, you're crying," Clint said bluntly, suddenly at a loss as to what to do. He never meant to make her cry – didn't think _Natasha_ cried, period. "Jesus, Nat, I'm sorry," he added, lifting a hand to her before pulling it back. How was one supposed to comfort a deadly, rogue Soviet agent? What did the agent guide say about that kind of crisis? Where was Phil _big softie_ Coulson when he needed him?

"Don't be," she dismissed him with a wave of her hand, bringing the other to her face to wipe her tears. She closed her eyes for a second, inhaling and exhaling softly to control her breathing, and she felt the light shiver in her body finally come to a halt. This was stupid. Natasha schooled her face, opened her eyes, and gave Clint a small smile. "I'm fine," she lied. "I've had too much wine, that's all."

Clint cocked an eyebrow at her. Natasha could drink him under the table, she'd proved it that night they'd celebrated with two bottles of vodka. But wine made him deep, so what if it made her lower her inhibitions and allow herself some humanity? That was fine by him. "No hug, then?" he asked teasingly.

Natasha laughed through her tears. She took him in, tired features and arm in a sling, bright smile and eyes, honesty and kindness in the curve of his lips and the spark in his gaze, and she shook her head. "I don't do hugs," she said with a watery smile, wondering for a second what would happen if she did. "Maybe some other time," she still pressed, letting him know that this was about her issues and not him.

He gave her a smile then, that stupid smile of his, cocky and sweet and genuine and _him_. Leaning into her again, Clint brushed his thumb against her cheek, catching a lonely tear. "I'll hold you to that, Romanoff."

It sounded like a promise.

Natasha realized she was _hoping_ it was one.

(Here she was, young and hopeful, and all hell _didn't_ break loose. _Wow_.)

* * *

Natasha woke up in the middle of the night, and it took her a moment to understand _why_.

She wasn't drenched in cold sweat after a nightmare, vivid images racing through her mind and haunting her; neither was she under any attack, and she hadn't jerked awake to reach for the gun under her pillow. It was there, she could feel it, but it wasn't what her fingers were toying with. Feeling no threat, she nuzzled deeper in her pillow, ready to drift back to sleep.

Except it wasn't soft fabric but _skin_ she felt beneath her cheek and between her fingers.

Suddenly very still, Natasha assessed the situation quickly. They'd both rolled on their side during the night, Clint spooning her from behind, but the hand she was clinging to was definitely _her_ doing. She was using his good arm as a pillow, holding his hand tightly against her chest. Natasha could feel his other arm tucked between his chest and her back, held by the sling, but other than that they were snuggled together. In all the nights they'd spent together, they'd never done that. Sometimes they'd share a bed after an emotionally exhausting therapy session or a late night talking until darkness fell, but even then she wouldn't go seek his warmth or comfort, and they wouldn't wake up tangled in each other like they currently were. She tried to remember the last time someone had held her like that, and the only memory she could come up with was one of a little girl at the orphanage – _Alina_? or what is _Alexandra_? – that she spent most of her time with, huddled together under the blankets at night, dreaming of a life that would be so much different from the life they were living. No one had held her since.

It was nice, Natasha couldn't deny it. It was the first time she had a platonic relationship with a man though – any kind of _real_ relationship, really – and she didn't know what to do with it. Clint was an attractive man, but in that way that some good-looking people sometimes were, and didn't see it. He could be cocky about many things, his self-proclaimed flirtation skills or his aim (okay, _that_ he had reasons to be proud of), but he didn't use his good looks like she did; it was a given that she was supposed to bring the glamour to their partnership. But it didn't change the fact that he was handsome and kind and fun, with that self-deprecating humor that was sort of endearing, and he was holding her or she was holding him, _whatever_, and this was new, uncharted territory.

She thought of what it could have been like, two strangers meeting in Paris instead of two assassins and a target painted on her back. He was attractive and she was gorgeous, Clint had said it himself; there would have been _nothing_ to hold them back. Seduction was her field, after all, and like everything Natasha dedicated herself to, she was an expert. They would have been good together, she was certain of it. But now they were partners and partners didn't get involved with each other. Partners didn't get to know each other by shedding clothes on the floor and tangling themselves together under the sheets, learning the sounds they made when lips meshed or hips rolled. Clint had offered her his friendship; friendship she would have to learn.

"Stop thinkin'," she heard him mumble, his warm breath fanning over her neck. She froze on the spot, trying to be very still, but Clint just nuzzled in her hair. His voice was so low and sleepy that Natasha wondered if he was really awake. "Just…_stop_. You givin' me a headache."

"You were sleeping," she said quietly. "You _still_ are."

"Nah," Clint said with a yawn muffled in her hair. She felt him try to lift his hand to rub his eyes, before he realized she was holding it. "You're holding my hand," he stated simply.

She shrugged against him. She was _not_ discussing this right now, or ever. "I was cold," she lied unapologetically.

"_Oh_," Clint had the good grace to say, not calling her out on her ridiculous excuse. Wordlessly he moved closer, lifting his injured arm and wrapping it around her, resting it heavily against her stomach above her wound, his torso fully touching her back now, and then he slid one leg between hers. "Better?" he asked, his voice still hoarse from sleep but clearer, and if Natasha shivered, it was only because she was tired. _Nothing more._ He felt her nod, and he spoke. "Good. Now tell me what you were thinking about."

"I wasn't," Natasha lied again.

She felt him smile. "Bullshit," he said softly. "You're so intense, even in your sleep, it's almost impossible to get any rest near you. Tell me, Nat," he pressed again.

She sighed. It was warm and inviting, nestled in his arms like that, his arm snugly wrapped around her but not possessively. It reminded her of the blanket forts she used to make with that little girl. Clint wasn't holding her like she was his for the taking; he was holding her like it was as natural for him as breathing. "Just thinking about you and me, and that thing," she said, vaguely gesturing in the air with the hand she'd laid above his at her stomach. "S.H.I.E.L.D. and all."

"Ah," he said, already almost asleep again. "Verdict?" he breathed in her hair.

Natasha shook her head, his breath tickling her. "I think we're friends, now," she replied matter-of-factly.

"Good," he said. "Now go back to sleep." He was snoring before finishing his sentence.

She tried. Natasha laid in silence for a moment, synchronizing her breathing with his, hoping it would lull her to sleep – it _didn't_. She nudged him with her elbow. "Hey, Clint? You awake?"

"You just stabbed me with your bony elbow, of course I'm awake," he grumbled. "What now?" he asked, his tone softer.

"Your shower curtain," Natasha said out of the blue. "It bothers me."

Clint laughed, swearing under his breath. "My shower curtain? Jesus, Nat. Only you would want to discuss my decoration skills in the middle of the night. What about it?" he asked.

"_Robin Hood_, really?" she said seriously as she rolled onto her back to face him. His arm was still behind her neck as a pillow, and the other fell to lay flat across her stomach.

"I thought it was cute," Clint shrugged.

"Cute?" Natasha teased him. "You're supposed to be S.H.I.E.L.D.'s best sniper, and you use words like _cute_?"

Even in the dark, she could see him roll his eyes. "I'm just in touch with my feminine's side, okay?" he said, holding his hand up in defense.

"The only feminine side you're in touch with is _me_ right now, Barton," Natasha mocked him.

Clint chuckled, the warm puff of air tickling her cheek. "Is that all?" he asked, not even pissed, just amused.

"No," she shook her head. "You need new sheets, too."

"I need new sheets or _you_ need new sheets?" he laughed. "I didn't think that bringing you here would mean redecorating my entire apartment to your standards."

"Not the _entire_ apartment," Natasha said, her mouth stretched in a smile. "Just a few things here and there, really. It's not your fault if you don't have any taste," she teased.

Clint rolled his eyes. He wasn't going to argue with her about that. He wasn't going to argue with her at all, because if it made her happy to boss him around in his own apartment, he would let her. He remembered the first couple of weeks at S.H.I.E.L.D., when she always looked like she couldn't believe any of it was real. He would find her in her quarters, her bed always made neatly, the clothes he'd bought with her still in her go-bag, as if she was ready to leave at a moment's notice, almost expecting to be thrown out. It had taken a full month for her to accept that her quarters were hers, that she could settle down, that no one was going to replace her. She'd started folding her clothes in her drawers and buying things with her first paycheck, and soon her quarters looked like the home she had to have dreamed about in her childhood.

Clint was no genius, but her sudden interest in his home decoration had to do with that sense of belonging she was craving so much. He wanted nothing more than to make her feel like this, this _thing_ they had going on, was real. After all, she was the first person he'd brought here. This meant something to him, too. "You can do whatever you want, but the shower curtain is staying," he said, stifling another yawn. "And I'm totally getting you one when you get your own apartment."

Natasha grinned. "What would _I_ do with a shower curtain with bows and arrows?"

"Think of me?" Clint offered with another yawn. "Spiders freak me out. I'm not getting you a spider curtain. That's creepy," he rambled, his voice just a low whisper as he nuzzled his face in his pillow. "You need a new name. Spiders are the worst."

He was snoring before she could tease him about saving the world on a regular basis and still being afraid of bugs. Natasha remained still for a moment, listening to him breathing, until his arm across her stomach felt heavier and she was sure he was asleep. "Clint?" she whispered. When he didn't react, she allowed herself to confess, "Thanks for having me here."

He snored in her ear in return.

She fell asleep easily, pushing her growing concern about how she'd grown used to him so quickly aside. Tomorrow was a good day to start worrying. There were worse things than trusting someone who had put his life on the line for her, after all.

* * *

They were three days in their little vacation when it struck Clint.

There was food in his cupboards and fridge, and his apartment smelled like fabric softener, lavender or something, his brand new Egyptian cotton sheets hanging at the window to dry. Natasha was busy in his kitchen, flour on her cheeks, a ridiculous apron tied around her waist saying _Archers do it better_ that he'd put in their shopping cart when she wasn't looking. She was baking him a cake, silent and focused on the task at hand, and he was staring at her with dazed eyes like the fool he was. He was riveted by her skilled hands, how they could close around a man's throat and choke him to death or tend to his wounds with unsuspected softness. Natasha was a paradox, he realized; she was fierce and sensitive, terrified and fearless, cautious and reckless, motherly and childish, damaged and whole. _Real_. She was a living legend for everybody else, but to him, she was just Natasha, and _just Natasha_ was more than good enough, and _Jesus_, she was cooking for him, looking beautifully domestic in his apartment as if she'd always belonged there.

It took Clint three days to realize he could get used to this.

For years now he'd dedicated himself to S.H.I.E.L.D., because it was the only thing he had. He wasn't proud of the things he'd done before meeting Coulson. He owed the man everything; a chance to atone his sins and be a better man, a job and a home, but also his very life. Phil had helped him when Clint didn't think he deserved saving; he'd given him a chance, seeing in him something that Clint wasn't sure was there. He'd spent every day ever since doing his best to deserve that trust and faith. _Gratitude_ was driving him, sometimes more than the need to do the right thing. Clint had never imagined doing anything else with his life. Phil was like a father sometimes, even though he wasn't old enough to be his; he was a brother and a friend, the only person Clint had trusted for so long. As long as he had Phil and his bow, everything would be fine.

And now he had a beautiful mess of a partner, and he didn't know what he liked best about her, how she could choke someone with her thighs or the way she looked right now, young and carefree with the prettiest of smiles tugging at her lips.

"Are you done staring?" Natasha said without even looking up at him, calling him back to earth. "Because I could use a little help."

"I wasn't staring," Clint argued, making his way into the kitchen to stand at her side. "And I don't cook, darling."

Natasha raised an eyebrow at him, giving him her _you're an idiot and I don't know why I haven't killed you yet_ look. "I know what you're thinking, and you're gonna stop now," she warned him, placing a bowl in his hands. "Whisk that, and don't you dare put your gross fingers in it," she added, her threatening tone making him pull his hand away from the chocolate mix immediately.

"Do you really have to be so bossy?" Clint whined, and yet obediently doing as he was told.

"Do you really have to look at me with _that_ look?" she asked, waving her hand at his face. "I'm not gonna come over and cook for you for the rest of my life, Barton. Get that out of your head. This little housewife fantasy of yours needs to stop, _darling_," she said with that sweet smile that promised mayhem and doom.

Clint chuckled. "_You're_ the one who decided that what was mine was yours, Tash," he laughed, gesturing at his apartment in general. "I bought new sheets because my old ones weren't soft enough for you," he said, counting on his fingers. "I got a new gel shower because mine was too _manly_ for you."

"I'm a _woman_," Natasha countered. "I can't use a gel shower that says women can't resist anyone wearing that great fragrance," she said, embellishing a gag. "It smells cheap, by the way."

"No one ever complained before," Clint grumbled with a roll of his eyes. "And I thought you smelled good with it," he added.

"That's because men turn into cavemen when women wear their stuff," Natasha shrugged, a small, cocky smile tugging at her lips. "Don't even argue," she added quickly. "It's science."

"So I'm a brainless stupid American dog, a caveman, and I have no taste?" Clint asked, grinning, and counting on his fingers again. "I guess I'm lucky to have you to fix me, huh?"

Natasha smiled, and the conversation was over with the little nod she gave him. She went back to focusing on her cake, taking the bowl from him and filling a cake tin with the mix, and then she put it in the oven – Clint wondered for a second if he'd ever used it, before remembering that until the day before he hardly owned any kitchen utensil. "What got you in a cooking mood, all of a sudden?" he asked, reaching for the bowl before she could put it in the sink, and dipping his finger in it to taste the mix.

"No reason," Natasha replied softly, her back to him as she started washing the dishes. "I like baking."

"Yeah?" Clint said, a little surprised. It was an unusual sight, a famous assassin baking in his kitchen, and the very idea of a younger Natasha baking in between two kills was unsettling to say the least. He leaned against the counter, watching her and waiting for her to elaborate.

"I used to help in the kitchen at the orphanage," Natasha said after a moment, her voice very quiet as she seemed to focus on her memories, trying to tell the difference between reality and lies. "There was this woman, she was always nice to us. She didn't stay long, maybe three months, but she baked every Sunday. She wasn't like the others," Natasha finished in a whisper.

Clint knew what she meant. He rarely ever thought of his time in the orphanage, because those years had left scars that he wasn't sure had ever properly healed. People there had let him know very early on that no one would ever want to adopt him. He'd spent years watching other kids find a new home while he and Barney stayed, always looked over in favor of pretty, smiling little girls and boys. He knew that Natasha shared a similar experience, even if it was the first time she was willingly sharing something about her childhood with him.

"My brother always got me in trouble when we were kids," he found himself saying, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could think them over. "He made me crawl through the kitchen window once to steal food. I think I still have the bruise from the kick I got when I got caught."

Natasha turned off the water, reaching for a towel before she turned around, her brow slightly frowned. "You never told me you had a brother," she said.

Clint scratched at the back of his neck. "Barney's not really the brotherly type. Me neither," he shrugged. "We never got along. Haven't seen him in years. Could be dead for all I know," he tried to say matter-of-factly.

He averted his gaze then, and Natasha didn't insist. She'd heard him whimper in his sleep, pleading Barney not to hurt him as he was trapped in a drug-induced nightmare. She wasn't going to twist the knife deeper and ask about him now. Natasha knew all too well what it was like to have skeletons in her past and the weight they carried.

She had an appointment with a therapist every week to remind her of it.

Natasha wasn't looking forward to her next session at all. She knew already what the doctor would want to talk about; her first operation with her new partner, how they could have both died, how she was feeling about it. Her therapist was always so adamant about asking her how she felt all the time, and though Natasha knew it was coming from a good place, it was still emotionally draining to put feelings on every little thing she shared. She would have preferred making a list of facts she could distance herself from, but he kept asking her the very contrary, that she tell him about _her_ more than about the Red Room's secrets. He'd made her talk about her anger and her pain, forcing her to push her own limits.

She didn't want to talk about almost losing Clint. She didn't want to talk about feeling like she couldn't breathe as her heart pounded in her chest, colliding painfully against her ribcage. She didn't want to talk about how light and _happy_, really, she felt right now either. Those were her first real emotions; she somehow treasured them. No one had made them up for her and put them in her brain. Clint was real, and what she felt for him – gratitude, affection, irritation all mixed together – was real, too. S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't need to know about it; no one did. It was hers to keep.

She finished the dishes, dried them and put them in the cupboard. It wasn't until she was done that she realized Clint wasn't hovering anymore, but napping on the couch. The nights still weren't easy on them – Natasha wondered if they ever would be, with the life they led – and one always ended waking the other up at some point, either with their tossing and turning or the still vivid pain they felt in their limbs. Clint had made a point of them taking their painkillers before going to bed, and even if they did help ease the pain, they both hated the way they made them feel loopy and out of it all day. It wasn't uncommon for one of them to doze off during the day, getting some rest at last.

Natasha folded herself at the end of the couch, watching over him as she waited for the beep of the oven to go off. She hadn't baked in forever – not quite the skills the Red Room was interested in developing – but she hoped it would still be good. Clint deserved it.

It had been six months since the day he'd made a different call and turned her life upside down.

* * *

_to be continued_


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N**: Thank you again for the lovely feedback. Life has been quite hectic, but I'm happy I managed to update before the end of the month like planned. Hope you enjoy. :)

* * *

Since Sao Paolo, Natasha had learned to appreciate having a boss who cared about you and your well-being. She never got some time off to heal with the Red Room; she could be bleeding out and they'd still send her wherever they needed her to be after she was given one of her injections. One injection and she was ready to go. Natasha didn't know what it was that they were giving her; the only thing she knew was that her body healed faster than most people because of it. She didn't remember ever asking; if she had, they probably had deleted the memory. That _wasn't_ Coulson's policy, though. He gave them ten days off before putting them on desk duty and physical therapy, and he sighed heavily as he caught the look they exchanged, knowing damn well that they'd go back to training once he turned his back.

For the next three weeks all Coulson let them do was surveillance that required them to sit tight in a car for hours or play pretend, lovebirds taking a walk in a public park or house-hunting. Clint was a sniper; Natasha had no doubt that he was a patient man and could stay still, waiting for his target as long as necessary without blinking an eye. Surprisingly _she_ was the one who had trouble sitting in silence, so they made the most of those long, boring hours to get to know each other better. She started the game with a silly question, his favorite color or food, she didn't remember, and Clint had kept the game going, pushing a little deeper than she'd originally intended.

As he returned her questions, Natasha had realized that she _did_ have a favorite color or book, but that no one had ever cared to ask before and she had never stopped to think about it. Art had always been her safe haven; ballet first, and then books. She'd read so many of them in all the languages she'd been taught, promising herself that one day, she would see the world with her own eyes; spend hours in a museum in Paris or wander the old streets of Rome and Prague, feel the warm sand of California beneath her feet and fingers instead of hot, thick blood. She spent most of her days being someone else; but these dreams she cherished in secret, holding onto them like onto the last threads of her sanity. Clint listened to her speak with genuine interest, asking for details and smiling as she shared her stories, and Natasha realized that she wasn't as unworthy as the Red Room had tried to make her believe. They'd stolen her past, but for the first time she let herself enjoy the present, the grasp on her life that Clint had made so dear. She could never get back what she had never really had, but she could make every day count now. And even if she didn't understand why, Clint seemed happy to collect the moments one by one with her.

She realized just how much a couple of weeks later, when she entered her quarters only to find a box waiting for her on her bed, a little note tied to the red ribbon with her partner's messy handwriting on it that only said _Meet me at 7_. She'd been with him just ten minutes ago before they'd separated to take a shower after a long gym session, and Clint hadn't said a thing. Natasha unfolded the bow delicately, pretending that her fingers weren't slightly shaking; her curiosity was aroused, true, but mostly she felt a little overwhelmed with an emotion she couldn't quite place or name. Everything came with a price, she'd learned it the hard way. Every man who'd ever offered her a gift had wanted something in return: sex, love, loyalty, submission; everyone had a price, and many had tried to find hers out. But Clint _wasn't_ like that, Natasha kept reminding herself as she opened the lid of the box. _Not him_.

She couldn't quite help the gasp that escaped her lips as her fingers brushed delicate silk and she lifted the fabric in the air, revealing a dark green dress. It was simple but elegant, and her first thought went to the General and a ballroom in Petersburg. Her dress had been ivory then, rows of golden pearls on the front and a tiara made of diamonds in her hair. The General had pressed a kiss to her temple, murmured _Make me proud_, and a young man had offered her his hand, asking her for a dance. She'd let herself be led, smiled as he swirled her around, blushed and giggled when he told her she was beautiful. The man – a boy, a child just like her, no older than seventeen – had suggested to go outside in the garden to enjoy the night, and she'd dug her knife in his ribs when he leaned down for a kiss. It was quick and easy and her hands and dress were clean, untouched by blood as Natasha had walked out. She'd pleaded the General to keep the dress, a rare wish for something beautiful to hold onto, but the old man had shaken his head with an amused smile. _Oh, Talia, dorogaya_, he'd said, _pretty dresses are for nice girls_.

Natasha dropped the dress to the floor, and sat down on her bed, lifting a hand to her temple where she could feel a headache start pounding. Pretty dresses were for nice girls, and she'd _been_ a nice girl, all sugar and spice like they expected her to be. Ivan was very generous; with him she'd had her own dressing room, dozens of dresses and heels and jewelry, everything a woman could have ever wanted. She'd let him buy her affection with his gifts, because that's what the General had ordered. Natasha had spent six months with him as Katya, a gorgeous wannabe actress that Ivan, a boring scientist, never understood how he could have been so lucky to find. He was kind and gentle, reverence in his eyes when he looked at her, and when he was touching her, Natasha almost wanted to cry because he didn't deserve what was going to happen to him. The Red Room was looking for a new team of researchers, and Ivan was going to be one of them whether he wanted to or not. Natasha sometimes wondered if he was still alive, before forcing herself to push the thought aside. And there had been Sergei, Alexei, John and Frank and Angus, Carolina and Cecile and Johanna, countless names of men and women she'd been sent to seduce and kill, and pretty dresses were for nice girls and all Natasha had was a ledger that was dripping red, and hands that would never be clean again.

She looked down at the dress pooling at her feet, and Natasha felt panic creep up on her. What was it supposed to mean? She had to get dressed and meet him, but then what? She didn't want to think about it, didn't want to ruin what she and Clint had, but the memories blurred her vision before she could stop them; she'd done it a hundred times before in a hundred different lives, slipping in and out of a dress, flashing a smile and a knife or a gun, and this was what she was born to do, no matter how much she tried to escape it. Natasha pressed her eyes firmly shut and rubbed at them with closed fists, her teeth digging into her bottom lip in a vain attempt to control herself. She could see blood and feel its familiar, metallic taste in her mouth, and then she saw _him_, bloody and battered and bruised, and it was her fault, always had, and she bit the inside of her cheek, the flash of pain helping her snap back into focus.

When Natasha opened her eyes, the blood was gone, his imaginary lifeless body with it. All that remained was the green dress on the floor and the throb in her mouth, and the angry tears that prickled at the corners of her eyes. She looked up at the clock on the faraway wall, and realized she only had half an hour left to get ready for whatever it was that Clint had in mind. She couldn't help wondering if this was just an elaborate plan to get her in his bed, a slow burn seduction that she'd become an expert at and that he might just be as good at. Natasha scolded herself as she stepped in the shower, almost scalding her skin with hot water as a punishment. Clint wouldn't do that, she repeated as she scrubbed herself with her shower gel, tangerine and ginger, spicy and sweet and musky. Clint was a goddamn romantic, she just knew it; he would never ask anything from her just because he _could_, because he knew she owed him a debt and that she'd do anything to feel like they were remotely even. No. If Clint was interested in her, if he _wanted_ her, she would know. He didn't. He was just nice, and an idiot – the two usually came together.

She came out of the shower and wrapped herself in a towel, bracing her hands on the edges of the sink to look in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed, and Natasha hated that she knew it wasn't _entirely_ because of the heat in the bathroom. She'd never gone out with someone who wasn't a _mission_, and sure, Clint had taken her out for dinner plenty of times by now; but none of these nights out had required wearing something else than one of his oversized hoodies and yoga pants or jeans.

Natasha shook her head, trying to clear it and reach this mindset where she felt and thought of nothing. She rubbed at her hair with a towel, giving up on styling it and letting it naturally curl, and then she slipped in the silky dress. It was a perfect fit, and she wondered for a second how Clint knew her size. She knew his, of course; she knew how he took his coffee and the lyrics of the song he hummed while taking his shower, but men weren't supposed to pick on these little details. Natasha took herself in, smiling a little at the way the dress matched her eyes, and she put on a little touch of make-up – it'd be a shame not to do justice to such a beautiful dress, after all. Grabbing a pair of black heels on her way out, she slipped her feet in them as she walked to Clint's quarters on slightly unsteady legs.

He opened the door as soon as she'd knocked on it, as if he'd been waiting behind it for a moment. Clint looked nervous for a brief second before appreciative surprise stretched on his features as he took her in. "Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Nat," he said, his typical Clint bluntness bringing a smile to her lips. "You…_wow_."

"You suit up nice, Barton," Natasha grinned, stepping inside to give him a better look. Clint was not the kind of man who liked dressing up. She'd seen him sniff a t-shirt before putting it on, and that was the _true_ Clint Barton. But here he was, wearing a nice suit, the white shirt a nice contrast to his healthy tan, the dress pants and jacket hugging muscles she'd seen – and appreciated – before in his many various states of undress. The knot of his tie was a little loose, showing his natural laidback side, and _okay_, she had never been a normal teenage girl so she didn't really have any experience of butterflies fluttering in her stomach, but her partner was kind of really attractive right now. Natasha sat down on his bed, resting her hands behind her and leaning on them. "So…what's this all about?" she asked, giving a little nod to her dress first, and then to him.

Clint laughed. "Wouldn't you like to know?" She narrowed her eyes at him, and he just shrugged. "You're dying to know, aren't you?" he asked, amused, knowing perfectly well that Natasha loved surprises just as much as any other spy who lived by the code that unexpected meant _trouble_. "We're going out," he said.

It was Natasha's turn to laugh. "I had kind of figured that one out, genius," she said with a snort, gesturing at her dress again. "This is a very nice dress," she added, her tone softer this time.

"Yeah?" Clint asked, a little surprised and relieved at the same time. "I swear to God, picking a dress is the hardest thing I've ever had to do," he chuckled. "Like, this salesgirl, she comes to me and she asks me a billion questions and I'm just like, I want a dress, okay?" he started, and Natasha suppressed a mocking grin. "How the hell am I supposed to know if you're a goddamn full hourglass or a triangle? I mean, you've got everything in the right places, why isn't _that_ a body shape?" Clint rambled.

Natasha grinned, and damn, she was sure her smile looked like that stupid smile of his but she couldn't help it. Her heart swelled and it was such a foreign feeling, smiling until it hurt instead of smiling when she _was_ hurt, that before she knew it she was up on her feet and walking to him and pressing a kiss to his jaw. It lasted all but a second, a light brush of her lips against him, and she pulled back. "Shut up," Natasha warned him before he could speak, and she tried to look intimidating, she did, but her eyes were saying what she wouldn't – _thank you_ and _you didn't have to_ and _when am I going to stop owing you?_

Clint smiled that infuriating grin of his, and then took a look at his watch. "If the lady is ready, it's time to go," he said. "And _no_, you're not gonna trick me into telling you where we're going, so just go with me on this, Nat, okay?" he pleaded, holding the door open for her and following her in the hallway.

It wasn't in Natasha's nature to let herself be led into the unknown, and yet she found herself giving him a pout and a little nod. Clint had put himself through the effort of doing something for her, and he'd done it well because she hadn't had a clue that something was going on; the least she could do was let him enjoy surprising her. She followed him to the elevator, and then to the second underground floor where they parked their cars. She cocked a curious eyebrow as they walked past his car and hers, and Clint stopped beside another. "Whose car is it and how much will we regret stealing it for the night?" Natasha asked, brushing a finger along the pristine sports car. "Because I will totally blame it on you, and you know people are too scared I'll kill them in their sleep to tell me anything," she added with a devious smile.

Clint rolled his eyes before unlocking the car and holding the passenger door out for her. "We're not stealing it, we're taking it out for the night," he said, closing the door behind her before sitting in the driver's seat. "This is Phil's car, by the way. And he knows we're taking it."

"You told Coulson you needed a car to go out?" Natasha asked, perfectly shaped eyebrows lifting in surprise.

"This might come as a shock to you, little spy," Clint replied as he started the engine and reversed very carefully, "but not everything has to be a secret. I told Phil I was planning on taking my very-hard-to-impress partner out and that I needed a fancy ride, and since I'm his favorite, he said yes," he finished with a cocky smile.

He exited the parking garage and Natasha watched him for a moment, an amused grin tugging at her lips. She could tease him for a dozen things, but in the end the idea of Clint acting like a teenage boy on his first date was _adorable_ – which was a word that, until recently, _didn't_ exist in Natasha's vocabulary. But most of the things he said or did that she called him an idiot for weren't that stupid; and Natasha had the feeling that he could hear it in her tone that _you're an idiot_ meant _I wouldn't have you any other way_. "What did he ask in return?" she asked, and when Clint hummed absently, she added, "Coulson. Favorite or not, this is not the kind of car you let just anyone drive."

Clint laughed. "My first-born and my soul. _Yours_, too, actually," he said. "Phil loves his cars. I had to make a goddamn blood oath. Tss, the things I do for you, Nat," he smiled, turning his head briefly to look at her.

Natasha gave him a sweet smile. It was nice, being treated like a princess for once and knowing that the spell wouldn't break at midnight with someone's blood on her hands. Sometimes she looked at Clint and for a moment, just a tiny, perfect moment, she forgot who they were; there were no KGB and no S.H.I.E.L.D., no ledgers, no blood on their hands – just _them_. They were friends, and maybe they could be _more_, someday; that sweet illusion was more comforting than disheartening, for once, like a fairy tale she knew would never really come true but that still made her smile. Natasha didn't believe in fairy tales – she couldn't even remember a time when someone would tuck her in bed and tell her stories of love and hope and miracles – but maybe this was her own version of it, a friend she could count on and a house that finally felt like a home. This was already more than she'd ever had.

She didn't know what pushed her to say what she said next. Maybe it was the absolute, almost scary certainty that she could trust Clint with anything; maybe it was because she felt like someone else for a night. "I've never been on a date," Natasha confessed out of the blue, feeling no shame in admitting it but an aching feeling of longing instead. "Not a _real_ date," she added, crossing her arms over her chest as she furrowed deeper in her seat, instinctively shielding herself from the raw truth. She had seduced dozens of men; used the very emotions she never allowed herself to feel against them, cajoling, stroking, smiling, manipulating. That was her skill set; she spotted people's weaknesses and used them against them. She smiled and laughed and moaned when it was needed, but no one had ever really made her _feel_ anything; maybe because _she_ was lost beneath layers of lies and deception.

Clint nodded, a small, sad smile tugging at his lips for a brief second. Missions and lies were all Natasha had. Everything she'd ever experienced was part of a mission, her first kiss and her first kill all the same. Sometimes she said things like this and he remembered the frail, skinny woman he'd cornered and trapped like a wounded animal, and it made him sick to his stomach to imagine the things the Red Room had made her do. She was just a girl, for Christ's sake. He'd read her file before Fury sent him after her, knew every line by heart; Natasha had shared some things with him that _weren't_ in it, and every memory she recalled, every shiver running through her body as she spoke, every tear she held back, made him want to make the people who'd done that to her suffer. It was a ridiculous protective streak because Natasha _didn't_ need protection; but the thought only of all the things she'd gone through made him so angry Clint was scared of the sheer intensity of his emotions.

Clint tilted his head to her at a red light, schooling his features to give her a warm smile. "Then this is a date, darling," he said smoothly. "I got a suit, and you're totally too hot for me. That's how most of my dates go," he laughed.

"This is not a date," Natasha replied quickly with a dismissive nod of her head. "Friends don't go on dates."

Clint smiled. "Not everything has to be black _or_ white, Tash," he said. "And there's no rule saying that friends can't go on dates."

Natasha snorted. "Yes, there _is_," she said. "Dates are romantic."

"They don't have to be," Clint countered easily. "The other night, that little risotto you made for me? Totally a date," he said with a firm, amused nod of his head.

Natasha rolled her eyes. She uncrossed her arms, feeling more at ease, and she turned a little and leaned against the window to look at him. "Inviting you over to my quarters to make sure you're well-fed hardly equals to a date, Barton," she said.

"True," Clint conceded. "It makes you a good _wife_."

"And here we go again with that little housewife fantasy of yours," Natasha sighed. She looked away, ignoring him for a moment. As her eyes took in the motions of the city, the street lights and the people, she suddenly realized something. "It's the second time you drive up that avenue," she noted. "Are you trying to make me lose my tail?" she asked, indignant.

Clint shrugged his shoulders. "You need to learn how to turn the spy in you off, Nat," he replied. "Tonight, it's just you and me, okay? Can you do that?" he asked softly.

He brushed his fingers against hers for all but a second before putting his hand back on the wheel, and Natasha felt warmth rush to the spot he'd touched. Natasha didn't like physical contact; for so long every touch she gave and received had been planned and orchestrated and she'd grown to loathe being touched without her consent. But Clint made her long for something she never knew she craved: intimacy. Clint didn't talk much, kept a lot to himself, but he was a very physical person. His hand often found hers when he could feel she needed it; he tucked lost curls behind her ear, touched her arm when he talked to her, wrapped his arm around her and snored in her ear at night, clutching to her in a tight, but warm grip.

It felt nice.

"So what's the thing about the suit and the dress? Are you going to ask me to marry you?" Natasha asked, and she had to laugh when she saw Clint's eyes widen comically. "Nice reaction, Barton. You sure know how to make a woman feel loved," she snorted.

"You took me by surprise," Clint apologized, grinning. "I didn't know you wanted to marry me. I'm flattered, really, Nat, but I'm not sure I'm ready to be one woman's man," he rambled.

Natasha rolled her eyes. One day, she'd kill him because it _had_ to be illegal being so infuriating. "I think I said something about _you_ asking _me_," she corrected.

"I usually take a woman out on a date before asking her to marry me, you know," Clint replied. "This is how these things usually go."

"You said _this_ was a date," Natasha countered easily. "It's no big deal, though, I'm too hot for you," she shrugged.

"And you'd be a terrible Mrs. Barton anyway," Clint replied just as easily, falling back into that flirty banter that they'd taken as naturally as breathing. He was snarky and she was sassy, and maybe one day he would tell her, how she gave him a reason not to jump into the fire anymore, but for now, snarky and sassy were good enough. "You'd kill me with that knife you hide in your bra if I dared offer you flowers on Valentine's Day."

"I don't understand the concept of Valentine's Day," Natasha just said with a shrug. She didn't. She might not know a lot about love, might have never _felt_ it, but there was something that bothered her about the idea of picking one day in the year to celebrate it. "I do love flowers, though."

"Noted," Clint smiled. "I'll remember that for next time." He stopped the engine, and Natasha turned to look around her, looking surprised that he'd managed to make her forget about where they were going. It only made his smile grow bigger. "Admit it. My powers of distraction astound you."

Natasha was about to say that the only thing that astounded her was that he knew that word, when her eyes landed on the sign on the façade of a building. "We're going to the ballet?" she asked, her green eyes sparking with genuine elation.

Clint grinned. "Why do you think I dressed up like a penguin? To go to a baseball game?" he teased her as he stepped out of the car and rounded it to open her door. He offered her his hand to help her out, and then he crooked his elbow and offered her his arm. "Phil said that I needed to look good for once."

Natasha couldn't say anything, not even teasing him for going to his handler for dating advice. He'd _listened_. She'd told Clint about being a ballerina, ballet classes and her love for art. She'd told him during a stake-out, or maybe over a pizza, and not only had he listened, but he'd remembered. And not only had he remembered, but he'd also gone out of his way to make this night happen and do something _for_ her. Clint was not a sophisticated man, and for once in Natasha's mouth it wasn't an insult or meant to demean him. Clint liked rock and country music, beer and burgers, cars and his bow. He liked old diners and bars with a story and a soul, ratty shirts with holes in them that he called well-worn, stray dogs and rogue Soviet agents – and she loved that about him.

She let him lead her to the entrance and then to their seats without a word, a frozen gasp on her lips as she looked around; the velvet red carpet at their feet, the beautiful tapestries at the walls, the crystal chandeliers, and Natasha had a hundred different memories of a similar night, silk and velvet beneath her fingers, another man's arm, music and beauty and blood, _always blood_, and she tightened her grip on Clint, pulling him closer. He smiled down at her, a little nervous and a lot adorable, and she didn't find her words until the second time he asked her if she was okay as they sat down. "Yeah," she nodded, a little out of breath, her heart beating in her chest almost painfully. She didn't know how to explain what she was feeling. It was gratitude and awe combined, and there was no way she could express that without sounding pathetic. It just had been a long time since anything as good as Clint had happened in her life – nothing ever had, really. "Thank you," she murmured, resisting the urge to avert her gaze and instead meeting his eyes, her own almost welling with happy, stupid tears. It was all she could articulate right now; _how_ and _why_ would have to wait.

"You're welcome," Clint said, furrowing deeper in his cushioned seat, as if ready to take a nap. "You gotta explain something to me, though," he added. "The program said something about mice and ginger breads. Is this ballet or a Disney movie?"

Natasha laughed. "I bet there's a Disney version of _The Nutcracker_ for you somewhere," she said fondly. She mirrored him, leaning deeper against the back of her seat, her hands folded neatly on her lap and her head slightly tilted to him. "It's a Christmas tale," she started in a low voice. Clint hummed, that little, quiet humming he did all the time that let her know he was listening. "It's about love and magic."

"Sounds like a Disney movie," Clint grinned.

She elbowed him lightly, beaming. The lights were turned off then, the curtain opened, and all Natasha could focus on was the show. The dancers, the costumes, the music she hummed quietly, never missing a beat. Clint watched her more than what was happening on the scene, the look of pure elation in her eyes, the way she was living the moment, and he thought _this_ was worth it, the stupid suit and the stupid look on Coulson's face when he'd asked him about it. He would never _get_ ballet; how people could express their emotions with their bodies, dancing it out. But Natasha loved ballet, and Natasha deserved at least one _normal_ night – and he'd make sure she got it.

In the end, he didn't really get the story – too much nonsense about toys and princes and mice and men in ridiculous sparkly outfits – but he got what he wanted. Natasha was smiling like a child on Christmas Eve, and Clint felt pride swell in him at being the one making her happy like that.

It was sheer bad luck that _it_ happened only two days after that night.

* * *

He knew from the moment Coulson summoned him that it would be bad. They were past weekly updates about Natasha; she'd proved herself to everybody who could doubt her and fear she'd deflect any time. If Coulson wanted to see him alone, it had to be bad news.

It was.

Years, just a few months ago, Clint wouldn't have minded; he had always _requested_ solo assignments. But now he had Natasha, and Natasha had him and _only_ him, and Clint felt that pang in his chest at leaving something and _someone_ behind for the first time in his life. Ever since his parents died, he'd jumped from one city to another with Barney, and even after they'd parted ways, ever after they'd stopped being brothers, not once had he regretted leaving him or anyone else behind. Until he met Natasha. "I don't like it, Phil," Clint sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

"Didn't expect you to," Coulson said sympathetically, "but you knew it would happen eventually. And so did Natasha."

Clint sighed again, feeling the tremor in his body as he exhaled. "_This_…this is good, okay?" he started, and Coulson nodded, even though it felt like Clint was voicing his thoughts more than talking to him. "It's not just good, it's great, actually. Nat…she's amazing on her own. And I'm really good on my own, too. But _together_? We're more than good. It was instantaneous, y'know?" Clint said, disbelief clear in his tone. "When we were in Sao Paolo, I just _felt_ it. I knew where she was without looking at her, I could feel her presence, and we just got into that easy rhythm, like we'd done that forever. I – I'm just not sure I could go back to being on my own now, because she is…she's the best partner I've ever had. No offense," Clint added quickly.

"None taken," Coulson said with a smile. He remembered training Clint and going on the field with him on his first few assignments. They'd worked well together, learning to get to know each other, the brotherhood they felt towards one another born very early on. But he'd seen him train with Natasha, heard the pride in his voice when he talked about how far they'd come. Clint had never connected with someone else on such a level. "Give it a couple years, and you two could become one of our best, if not _the_ best, S.T.R.I.K.E. teams we got. But you know that the best teams are made of great individuals whose skills are sometimes required on different missions," Coulson finished in a soothing, almost fatherly tone.

"I know," Clint nodded, his brow furrowed and his heart heavy. "Doesn't make it any easier."

"You like her," Coulson stated heavily, almost apologetically. "You're not just scared about her going on the field alone. You don't want to leave her."

Clint leaned his elbows on his knees tiredly, resting his chin atop his hands. "She's my something good," he replied simply, in the simplest, most honest words he could find. Clint didn't like speeches; couldn't make them, almost feared them. There were no words to express how he felt about her. It wasn't love, or lust, or even pity for everything she'd been through. Natasha was his friend, but Coulson was also his friend and Clint definitely didn't feel the same way towards him. He cared for him, would do anything for him, but it just wasn't the same. "She's the only thing I've done right, Phil," he finished in a murmur.

"You know that's not true, Clint," Coulson said, and God, how he wanted him to believe it. It was a recurring thing for agents to feel like they had to carry the weight of the world on their shoulders. Coulson had seen many bend beneath it, until they were so damaged and broken they could no longer help anyone, including themselves. He'd seen agents leave because they couldn't handle the guilt they carried for the loss of a partner, or being unable to save people caught in the crossfire. But he'd rarely seen someone who carried as much guilt as Clint. It wasn't entirely for the people he hadn't saved, but mostly for the things he'd done before joining S.H.I.E.L.D., and though he didn't talk about it much, Coulson knew that Clint would never really feel like he'd righted his wrongs.

Clint shook his head. "When am I leaving?" he asked, dismissing the other agent's comment.

"Tomorrow morning," Coulson sighed, rubbing at his temple.

"Okay," Clint nodded, standing up abruptly. "I gotta go. I need to…I gotta tell Nat." He was at the door when he turned again, biting on his lip before speaking. "You gotta promise you won't let her down, Phil," he said as he locked his gaze with his handler.

"I won't," Coulson replied firmly. "Your partner will be right here when you come back," he assured him.

Clint gave him a nod of his head again, unable to articulate his gratitude. Coulson had put his career in jeopardy when he'd agreed with making Natasha a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent just as much as Clint did, and it'd taken a huge deal of trust in his agent to do that. As much as Natasha felt like she owed him a debt, Clint _knew_ he owed Coulson everything.

He made his way to the fourth floor, where the infirmary and the therapist's office were. Natasha still had to go see him for her sessions, and her current one would soon be over. They had become less draining and intense with the months, but she could still be shaken after them and Natasha usually liked getting a moment to gather herself. It was selfish, Clint knew it, but he only had a few hours left with her before being forced to say goodbye for God only knew how long, and he didn't want to waste any minute brooding in his room. He leaned against the wall facing the office door and crossed his arms over his chest, and tried to figure out the best way to tell her.

He'd found none when she came out, the tension in her body obvious as she walked out with her hands closed in tight fists at her sides. Sometimes he'd see at the way her jaw tensed or the tiny bite marks in her lips that she was trying hard not to cry, and he never pushed. The sessions were supposed to help her feel better, and Clint often felt like they only made her feel worse; he didn't want to hurt her more. Natasha's face softened as she saw him, a tiny smile tugging at her lips as she unclenched her fists and put her hands in her back pockets. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Just wanted to see how you were doing," he said, and it wasn't really a lie, but it wasn't the entire truth either. For the briefest moment, he wondered what it would be like for her if he didn't come back, if it'd weigh on her every day, if these tears she refused to let fall would suddenly overwhelm her. Natasha frowned as if she didn't believe him, and Clint forced a smile. Natasha shrugged and started walking towards the elevator, and Clint followed her.

"Okay, what's going on?" she asked him as soon as the doors closed. "You look terrible," she added.

"Thanks," Clint snorted. Natasha narrowed her eyes at him, and he lifted a hand at his neck, rubbing the back nervously. "There's something I need to tell you," he admitted.

Natasha tensed. She schooled herself quickly, but he'd seen it. He was very acutely aware of her, of the slightest change in her demeanor. The way her voice hitched just a little when she was lying to him, when he'd heard her lie to just anyone without a problem. How he could tell she was having a nightmare at the way she furrowed herself deeper into him, when in broad light she wasn't one to initiate physical contact, almost avoiding it. He knew all of her smiles, the one she used on men to seduce them, the one she hid her pain behind, the one she had when she was genuinely amused – she couldn't fool him. He didn't fool her either, apparently. "Then tell me," she demanded, anger bubbling up in her tone.

The doors opened to their floor, and Clint gestured vaguely at the hallway. "Why don't we go to my quarters?" he suggested.

"Tell me, Clint," Natasha said again, softer this time, and that voice he knew too. It was small and desperate; scared, even. The doors closed again, and he tried to push the open button but Natasha caught his hand, her fingers wrapping around his wrist. "You're leaving, aren't you?" she said, and he could hear it in her voice that she knew it but needed him to _say_ it.

"Tomorrow morning," he replied.

"Where?" Natasha asked. Clint opened his mouth, before closing it and shaking his head. "Yeah, right. It's classified, and I'm not Level Super Trust-Worthy Spy," Natasha grumbled. She pushed the open button and the doors opened for the second time. "I guess you need to pack your bag," she said, ordering him out.

Clint frowned. "I – I thought we could go out tonight, y'know? That little Italian place you like," he said, and if the way Natasha narrowed her eyes at him was any indication, smooth-talking her wouldn't do the trick and soothe the blow she'd just taken.

"You need your rest," she said firmly, tilting her head to the hallway as a last warning. Clint stepped out, speechless, as he watched her hit another button leading to the gym floor.

He went to his quarters, feeling like a jerk despite knowing that it wasn't his fault if he had to go. It didn't make him feel any better about himself. Natasha was pissed, and in typical Natasha fashion, she was running instead of facing her feelings; and in typical Clint fashion, he'd stood there like an idiot, not saying a word.

He packed his bag in ten minutes, and then sat on his bed, hands covering his face. This sucked on so many levels his mind couldn't comprehend them all. Natasha was pissed at him, which meant she was hurt, which also meant _he_ had hurt her and it was the one thing he'd sworn himself he would never do. Natasha was also going to be alone for a while, which was not something she was used to considering they spent all their time together. Coulson had promised he'd take care of her, but what could he really do?

Clint contemplated joining her at the gym. A few rounds with her could always help him clear his mind, but he had the idea that today Natasha's punches and kicks would be more than punishing, so he decided otherwise. She needed her space, and he'd respect that.

He tried to keep himself busy for the next couple of hours. He studied the file Coulson had given him, learning all the data until he knew it by heart. He took a long, hot shower, trying to get rid of all the knots he could feel in his shoulders and back, but he realized after twenty minutes that they wouldn't go away as long as he had this knot in his stomach, this heavy, bad feeling in his gut.

He _tried_ to cook after that. Natasha was the cook. He could make anything as long as there were instructions on the box, but Natasha was a real chef. The kitchen was her space, and he liked watching her in there, focused and relaxed at the same time in that way that only someone who excels at something can be. But Natasha wasn't there; Natasha was probably kicking the living hell out of the punching bag or running that punishing extra mile on the treadmill, or taking a bath, drowning her moody thoughts in the hot water. So Clint tried to make something, wondering as he did if Natasha would skip their traditional dinner together.

She didn't.

She knocked on his door just on time, and that only was enough for Clint to know things weren't okay. Natasha had a key to his quarters, and she rarely knocked now when she was expected. He opened the door, and she brushed past him without a word and took a seat at his table. They exchanged small talk during dinner, nothing that really mattered, and Clint wanted to shake her because a cold, apathetic Natasha scared him. It was the Natasha he'd first met, the one who didn't care about living or dying, the one who believed that all of this was a joke and that someone would pull out the rug from underneath her feet anytime. He tried to joke around, even poked in her plate with his fork, but all Natasha did was fake a little smile.

She was on her feet the moment she was done eating. "I brought you something," she said after a moment, as if she only remembered now why she'd come in the first place. She leaned down and slipped her hand in her boot, coming up with a knife. "Take it," she said, handing it to Clint.

She was already at the door before he could say _thank you_.

Natasha wasn't one to get sentimental, but Clint had to admit he'd been naïve enough to think they would have a proper goodbye. There was no point in thinking of the possibility of dying during this mission and never seeing her again, but he didn't feel right, leaving without saying anything. But Natasha didn't seem to want that. She'd left, and Clint wouldn't run after her. If this was how she wanted things to go, he couldn't force her to face a goodbye none of them were ready for. He went to bed early, defeated and too numb to be angry, and the bed felt too big, the sheets too cold. Clint turned and tossed for hours, sleep eluding him, so he was still awake when his door opened, the light from the hallway piercing in softly.

He could just barely make out her shape, but Clint would have recognized her anytime, anywhere. She didn't say a word, just stood at the doorframe with her arms wrapped around herself protectively, and just as wordlessly he lifted the blanket, a silent invitation that Natasha understood immediately as she almost ran to the bed and slipped under the sheets. She curled up in a little ball at his side, making herself as small as possible, as if trying to melt into him and disappear, and Clint lifted his hand and awkwardly patted her hair. She might have been upset, but she was still Natasha and he wasn't sure she wouldn't cut his arm or something if he tried to hug her.

After a moment, she untucked one of her hands from her front and snaked her arm across his stomach, getting more comfortable. Clint laid still, his fingers still playing with her hair, waiting. He almost thought she'd fallen asleep when she spoke, her voice nothing but a low murmur in the dark. "You can't die," she said, trying to be firm but sounding uncharacteristically broken.

"I'll try my best," he replied just as softly.

"No," Natasha said, her voice louder this time. She lifted her head to look at him, tucking her chin on his shoulder, searching for his face and his eyes in the dark. "You do better than that. You don't die. You _don't_."

"I won't," Clint said, despite knowing this was a promise he couldn't make.

"Promise it," Natasha still asked, her voice cracking as she uttered the words. She knew he couldn't promise that. She knew it was ridiculous to ask. She knew _she_ was ridiculous for asking. But she did. Because Clint was the first she wanted to keep; because he was the first one she hoped she could keep.

His hand in her hair stilled. He let his fingers slide down her face, gently brushing her chin. "They sent me after _you_," he said, feeling her smile. "That means I'm the best. I promise I'll live up to the reputation," he swore.

That seemed to satisfy her. Natasha nestled again against him, seeking the contact she avoided during daylight. She wasn't cold like most people thought she was; she just took some time warming up to someone, and once she did, Clint had never met someone as affectionate as Natasha. She could kick his ass anytime, tease him mercilessly, and still cuddle to him at night, seeking his warmth, offering him hers as she wrapped herself around him, leaving no space, nothing in between them as if something terrible would happen if she did.

Maybe that was the difference between her and Coulson, after all. Clint would never cuddle with Phil.

Clint would never feel like a bullet pierced through his gut like it did when he had to get up just a few hours later and leave, either.

* * *

_to be continued_


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N**: I don't know what to say, except thank you again for the lovely feedback. I'm thrilled by your response to the story. :) I hope you enjoy this chapter as well. I might have been a little evil, so please remember that you don't hate me as you read. :P

* * *

He woke up to the sound of his alarm and the warm press of her body at his side, red hair tickling his neck and fingers wrapped around his shirt. It was because of little things like this that Clint didn't want to go. Natasha was an entirely different person at night, sleeping at ease next to him, trusting him enough to relax and believe he'd have her back if needed. Clint knew it was as much a foreign concept to her as it was to him, and the thought of thousands of miles and different time zones between them didn't appeal to him at all.

Slowly, he unfolded himself from her, gently taking her hand in his to untangle her fingers from his shirt. Natasha's brow furrowed in her sleep, a tiny tired moan escaping her, and Clint thought he'd woken her. But then she nuzzled her face in his pillow, a faint smile touching her lips, and he brushed her hair off of her face before getting up to get ready. As he got dressed, Clint wondered if this would always feel like this, this pang at his heart upon leaving, or if he'd get used to it someday. One day it'd be Natasha leaving him behind, and maybe this was all they'd ever have, a few hours or days together and a lot of goodbyes.

He watched her sleep for a moment, smiled upon seeing her progressively move to seek the warmth he'd left, hugging his pillow and lying on his side of the bed. Clint didn't want to disrupt her sleep and wake her, but he knew she'd be upset if he didn't say goodbye. He sat down at the table, grabbed a post-it note and a pen, and felt incredibly stupid. There were a hundred things he wanted to say to her; most of them would get him an eye roll or a kick from her for sure. He wanted to say how glad he was that it was him Fury had sent after her, how much better of an agent she made him, and how much happier; if it sounded this cheesy in his head, Clint couldn't imagine how much worse it'd sound like on paper. It was nonetheless true. In the end, he scribbled down a few words, tiptoed to the bed and stuck the note on the pillow; looking down at Natasha, he tucked the blanket up to her chin and softly, he pressed a kiss to the crown of her hair. He had no idea where that impulse was coming from.

She murmured something, his name perhaps but Clint wasn't sure. She was still asleep though, and just as silently as he'd approached her, he retreated, grabbing his go-bag and walking to the door. He didn't turn to look at her one last time; if he did he'd never leave. The moment he closed the door behind him, Clint tried to chase her away from his mind; he needed to focus on the mission, and coming home to his partner wasn't its goal despite being _his_. He wouldn't achieve anything if his focus was _here_ instead of there. The lingering scent of her skin on his he needed to stop thinking about; the same went with everything about her that he'd grown to cherish. The fact that she had a smile just for him. The fact that she trusted him when she'd never trusted anyone before. The fact that he was getting to see sides of her that no one suspected existed. Clint closed his eyes firmly shut as he leaned against the door for a second, taking a deep breath as he tried pulling himself together. He cleared his head of all things Natasha, and when he felt like he'd managed to do so, if only for a while, he shook his head and walked away.

Natasha woke up an hour later because she was cold, something that never happened when she spent the night with Clint. He was always warm, heat literally radiating from him, and his mere presence at her side was enough, no blanket needed. She reached blindly for him, seeking his warm body to cuddle against, but her fingers closed around thin air. Blinking her lashes, Natasha opened her eyes slowly; soft sunbeams were piercing through the curtains, and the spot beside her was empty. She scanned the room, not finding Clint, and she strained her ear towards the bathroom, but the water wasn't running either. It took Natasha a couple minutes to remember that Clint was supposed to go and that he'd probably already left; it was only then that she spotted the little piece of yellow on the pillow.

_Dear Nat_, it said, and Natasha _tried_ to roll her eyes at the endearment. But Clint wasn't there and there was no one to fool, no one she needed to pretend she wasn't sad or hurt or lonely for. She leaned back against the pillows and brought the blanket up to her chest as she kept reading. For such a little piece of paper, Clint had managed to write a lot. _Forgive the sentimentality, but you're sleeping in my bed and I gotta leave and I don't want to leave you. You can punch me for being such a girl when I come back. Or you can bake those little things with almonds and honey you do so well to celebrate. Either way, I can't wait. Don't get into too much trouble while I'm gone, be nice to Phil, and don't you dare throw my Robin Hood curtain. I'll try to bring you something from Bosnia. Or Madrid. Or wherever the hell I'm going to. I'd say something like Love or Yours Dearest, but I don't have a death wish, so…I'll be seeing you. Clint._

"Idiot," Natasha murmured, and yet she delicately ran her thumb over the ink, reading his words again. She wanted to be pissed that he'd left without properly saying goodbye, but hadn't she done the same to him the night before? She'd gone to the gym, kicked the punching bag until her fists were sore, run that extra mile on the treadmill until her legs shook from exhaustion. She'd run away to brood in her room for hours, hating herself for the angry tears she could feel well in her eyes and still denying herself the right to let them fall. Crying was for children and Natasha had never been a child, not really – she wouldn't cry over a man leaving her. Clint wasn't even leaving her; he was going on an assignment, he was just doing his job. So why did it feel like it was the end of her world? She'd never been so scared of losing something, but then again…Nothing in her life had ever meant as much to her as _he_ did. The very idea of Clint leaving on his own, and not being there to have his back was intolerable to Natasha when less than a year before nothing had mattered except outrunning her fate. Even her own life didn't really matter; death just promised to be even more painful than what life had been, and Natasha didn't particularly look forward to more suffering. But now she had someone else to worry about, someone else to care for, and living meant making sure he did, too. She felt as though her life had meaning.

He gave her _purpose_.

Thinking about it now, Natasha was almost relieved that he hadn't woken her up, because if she was this emotional just thinking about him gone, she didn't know how she would have reacted _watching_ him go. But feeling relieved didn't mean that she wasn't _hurt_. _That_ was the downside of feeling again; Natasha felt everything, the good and the bad, the joy and the pain. And though it wasn't Clint's fault, though there was no one to blame, it was still there, nagging at her, and not even building a fort with sheets that still smelled like him would help. All she wanted to do was stay in this bed until he came back, pretending that he'd never left in the first place.

She didn't get the chance to. A knock on the door startled her, and forced Natasha to have a change of plans. Reluctantly leaving the bed, she got up, put Clint's little note in the pocket of her pajama pants and grabbed the first hoodie she found in his closet. She knew who it had to be before opening the door, and the very fact that he knew to look for her in Clint's quarters made her cheeks flush. She knew what people had to be saying behind their backs; she didn't need Agent Phil Coulson of all people, the very embodiment of everything S.H.I.E.L.D. stood for, thinking that she was a mastermind manipulator, sleeping her way in and taking advantage of Clint's good nature and heart. Zipping the hoodie up, she ran her fingers through her hair to tame it, and opened the door.

"Natasha," Coulson greeted her with a smile. "I hope I'm not waking you up," he added, taking her pajamas and sleepy features in.

"It's no problem, boss," Natasha replied, shaking her head. She wrapped her arms around her, standing uncomfortably at Clint's doorframe. She felt exposed, almost vulnerable, and she hated that. "Is there anything you need me for, sir?" Natasha asked the older man, wondering what this early visit was for. Now that Clint was out of reach, were they finally kicking her out?

"I was wondering if you'd like to join me for breakfast," Coulson said, taking her aback. Natasha cocked a curious eyebrow at him, and he smiled. "I've heard you're quite fond of butter croissants, and, well…Not to be presumptuous or anything, but this kind of treats comes the higher clearance level you get," he laughed.

Natasha couldn't help laughing, too. "I wouldn't know about that," she replied, uncrossing her arms as she relaxed a little. "My current level only gives me access to Barton's pancakes. Which actually only happened three times in eight months, now that I think about it," she smiled. "I could really use some croissants right now."

"Then that's a deal," Coulson said warmly with a nod of his head. "I'll be waiting for you in the cafeteria."

Natasha nodded, and Coulson left, giving her time to get ready. She didn't need to ask to know that _this_ had Clint written all over it. They hadn't spent a day apart ever since that first night in Paris; Clint had always been right beside her, almost hovering, shielding her from everybody, from Nick Fury to anybody who could glance at her the wrong way. He'd put his career in jeopardy for her, standing up to his handler and friend, to his superiors, the very people who'd given him a chance, asking them to do the same for a woman he didn't know at all. He'd been kind and caring when she'd been nothing but distant and wary, standing at her side as she'd gone through the process of joining S.H.I.E.L.D., silently comforting her with his mere presence. He'd been there when the nurses and doctors had asked about every scar on her body and every broken bone, prodding at her ribs, drawing her blood, patching her up. He'd been there when she'd started feeling the pain in her limbs again; everything was more vivid without her injections, without whatever the Red Room used to give her to numb her body and mind. He'd helped her rewrite history and become someone new. He'd been there when she needed him, but also when she thought she didn't and pushed him away. Clint had _always_ been there.

For the past eight months, he'd been the most constant thing in her life. And now, he was gone.

Natasha was thankful for Coulson's attempt at making her feel less lonely.

She thought of what Clint had told her about the man as she made the bed before returning to her quarters to get dressed. He'd said Coulson was always there for his agents when they needed it; and even if it still felt weird, even if she still felt like this was all a joke, a very pleasant dream she'd inevitably wake up from someday, she was one of them now. She'd always be the Black Widow – she couldn't really expect people to call her by any other name after everything she'd done – but now she was using her skills on behalf of S.H.I.E.L.D.; it might have not meant a lot to her for now, but it meant something to Clint and that was all that mattered.

* * *

Natasha felt anxiety rush over her as she took the elevator to the cafeteria floor; she'd never been there without Clint. She didn't mind going to the gym alone because she knew people wouldn't bother her there. She had sparred a few times with other agents, engaged into a little friendly competition at the firing range with the fiercest ones who weren't afraid to compete with her. But the cafeteria wasn't the same. People socialized there; everyone knew each other by name, shared history together, had waded into battle side by side, and the only reason she knew everybody's names was because Clint had told her. She was tough and she could handle herself, but Natasha had appreciated that little bubble they both lived in. Clint wasn't much of a talker and he hadn't given her the impression that he was really into small talk with fellow agents, and that had been fine by her. But now that he was gone, Natasha knew she needed to learn to suck it up and face the rest of the agency.

She was surprised to see that she hardly got one curious look, but none of the hostility she expected. The woman from accounting who insisted on calling her Miss Romanoff gave her a smile; some agents nodded at her as she made her way to Coulson who was waving at her. It felt like one of these silly movies she not-so-secretly indulged in, the new kid under the wing of the popular guy, and Natasha shook her head at her own silliness, hearing Clint's snort in her ear. She sat down, facing Coulson, and smiled. "Jasmine tea? You remembered my favorite tea?" she asked, impressed. "Barton doesn't get tea. He says he doesn't understand the concept of –"

"Drinking hot water and plants," Coulson finished, a lazy smile tugging at his mouth.

Natasha grinned. Clint and his weird statements and habits was a safe topic, one that was inexhaustible. It was so much easier to talk about _Barton_ than Clint, as if using his last name helped keep a distance she didn't want to keep at all, but felt like she needed to when addressing their boss. Barton was her partner; Clint was her friend. Clint was _hers_; Coulson and he were friends and she respected that, admired their bond even, but she didn't really want to sit down with the other agent and discuss Clint for however long he'd be gone. She didn't really want to sit down and talk with anybody. She tore at her croissant with her fingers and busied herself with eating, feeling Coulson's eyes on her. And yet, he remained silent for a moment, starting on his breakfast too.

"How are you doing, Natasha?" he finally asked, with that soft, fatherly tone that was too genuine not to feel touched by it.

"I'm fine," she replied quickly, too quickly if the way Coulson stared at her was any indication. "Is this an American thing, this whole thing about _never_ believing it when people say they're fine?" she asked, sighing a little.

"That tends to happen when you really care about the answer," Coulson replied easily. His eyes grew serious, worry lines wrinkling his forehead as his brow furrowed. "You've been here for eight months now. How do you like it here?" he asked.

Natasha frowned. Was Coulson serious? She'd been made and unmade a hundred times at the Red Room, used and starved and injured, turned into her biggest enemy and rival as she had to outdo herself to retain what little perks she had from being the best – S.H.I.E.L.D. was like summer camp in comparison. It didn't matter that she'd been stabbed barely two months prior, because for the first time in her life she had something that was worth it. That scar at her abdomen she was proud of; it was a scar she'd gotten battling at her _partner's_ side, instead of it being her against the world. It was nice, that sense of belonging S.H.I.E.L.D. and Clint were giving her; but Natasha still couldn't put words on what she felt, didn't feel comfortable exposing herself, raw and bare and honest. Not to Coulson. Not to her therapist. Not even to Clint, sometimes.

Looking away, Natasha gave Coulson a noncommittal shrug. "This is good," she replied simply. "I mean, anything's better than Moscow," she added, her voice dropping to a low whisper.

Coulson's brow furrowed, his lips twitching in a sad smile. "You are so brave and quiet I forget you are suffering," he quoted, and as Natasha raised an eyebrow, he added, "that's Hemingway, not me, but still. It fits."

Natasha shook her head, both her hands cupped around her tea mug as she looked down. "I'm not brave," she replied.

Coulson had to admit he was surprised. Of all three, he'd been expecting Natasha to deny any admission of pain. "I'm sorry, but I beg to differ," he said, his tone warm, almost admiring. "You've left everything behind to start a new life here. That takes a lot of courage and strength."

"I fled like a coward," Natasha scoffed. "I ran away. That's not bravery. That's just…" She looked up then, a self-deprecating smile on her lips that strangely mirrored the one Clint often wore. "I had a choice between dying or joining S.H.I.E.L.D., and I just made the smartest decision," she shrugged.

A smile tugged at Coulson's lips. "You're just so much like him," he started as he brought his mug to his lips, taking a sip of coffee. "_Clint_. You both are confident in your skills and your training. But you don't realize who you are and what you're worth without them."

"I'm a spy," Natasha replied, feeling uncomfortable again. Sometimes Clint managed to get her to talk; after a long day, when she was tired, too tired to keep the walls up, a glass of wine and a gentle smile were all he needed to coax the truth out of her. His arm securing her to him at night beneath the sheets. The sheer certainty of knowing she could tell him anything and he wouldn't leave. But Coulson wasn't the same. Natasha was grateful to him for taking a chance on her, she really was; but he was her boss, her boss working for the real boss or whatever, and he wasn't Clint. She couldn't open up to him and talk about her feelings in the middle of a crowded cafeteria.

"But it's not the only thing that you are," Coulson argued softly. "Your worth is not defined by the number of missions you've accomplished."

Natasha crossed her arms over her chest defensively, not really knowing why she felt attacked when Coulson was being all but nice. But she did. "I'm sorry, sir, but where I'm from, _this_ is the very definition of worth," she said.

"You're not in Moscow anymore though, Natasha," Coulson replied easily, and the way he said her name almost sounded like Clint, warm and genuine, like she was whole and real. "We do care about our people here. It's important to us, _to me_, that you feel good here. This is your home now."

"Are you saying that because you're scared I will defect at some point if the opportunity rises?" she asked, half-cold and half-annoyed. Coulson was an idiot if he thought that the KGB would welcome her back with open arms; even if she wanted to go back, they would kill her for disobedience. Slowly.

"No," Coulson smiled with a shake of his head. "Clint trusts you, so I trust you."

"You're a fool," Natasha said, looking away again. They were back to calling her partner Clint apparently, and she wasn't comfortable with the change of mood. He'd offered her to join him for breakfast; Natasha would have said no if she'd known this was going to turn into Coulson wanting to talk about feelings.

"Don't you trust me because _he_ trusts me?" Coulson asked, not even upset a little as he was still smiling.

"That's different," she countered. "It was either trusting him and trusting you or dying." She didn't sound convincing at all and Natasha knew it. She trusted Clint with everything; and she did trust Coulson. No one had ever treated her with such gentle care as they both did before.

Coulson didn't argue, possibly because she was so transparent. "Did Clint ever tell you how he came to work with S.H.I.E.L.D.?" he asked out of the blue.

Natasha shook her head. "No. I never asked, either," she replied. She never really asked anything, because she was afraid he'd start asking too.

Coulson reached for another croissant and the jam jar, spreading some on it. "That's not my story to tell," he started, "but here's one thing I can tell you: Director Fury's the one who first heard of him and wanted him on board. I'm just the one he sent out for the negotiations."

Natasha was confused. She didn't know Nick Fury, had only met him once, but it seemed like getting on his personal radar was an honor and something Clint should definitely be proud of – and yet, he'd never mentioned it. He wasn't shy about the bond he had with Coulson, but he never seemed to think about Fury as anything else than his boss, the head of the agency, a living legend.

"Director Fury is not known for his social skills," Coulson went on. "Clint was around your age when he joined us, and the director thought it'd be better if I was the one handling him. Clint was a lot like you are right now back then," he insisted. "Not trusting anyone, expecting us to throw him out at the first mistake he'd make." He paused then, studying Natasha's face as she tried to school her features into perfect indifference, as if he wasn't describing exactly how she felt. "You think I'm a fool because I care, don't you?" he asked. "I think you're a fool if you can't see how much he cares about you, and if you truly believe that's a weakness."

"Caring makes you soft. Being soft gets you killed," Natasha replied with that still totally unconvincing tone. She had been raised to believe this, to become the embodiment of strength and fierceness and obedience, and caring wasn't part of the package. But it was getting harder and harder to believe it now that she had Clint.

"Caring is the reason why we fight in the first place," Coulson explained. "It's because your partner cares about you that he has your back. And it's because you care about him that you have his. You got a scar to prove it, don't you?" he prodded, nodding at her stomach.

Natasha dropped a hand to her wound, the still reddish scar jutting out her fair skin beneath her shirt a vivid reminder of how she could have lost Clint that day. But she hadn't. And she'd gotten stabbed while battling with him, _for_ him. Did that make her weak? Natasha could no longer pretend that was how she felt. "Why did you want to see me, sir?" she asked Coulson tiredly. "What is this _really_ about?"

"Believe it or not, but this is really about wanting to check up on you, Natasha," Coulson said, and she could see in his eyes that he meant it. "I want you to know that you're really one of us."

"Then why can't I know where my partner is?" Natasha asked angrily, her eyes icy as she stared back at Coulson. She didn't know where this anger was coming from all of a sudden, but she could feel it bubbling up in her chest, her blood racing painfully in her veins. If she was really one of them, why didn't they trust her about this? Why did they keep her in the dark?

Coulson dropped his gaze, his lips forming a thin line. "You don't have the clearance, Natasha. If I could tell you I would," he said truthfully.

She could hear the honesty in his tone, but Natasha was tired of good people with good intentions who still kept things from her. If they didn't trust her with this information, then they probably would never really trust her with Clint's life and that meant that eventually they would go back on their word and throw her out. She just wished they'd come out and say it now; she'd been lied to for so long, she just wanted the truth, no matter how hard or painful it could be.

Tired of what felt like an interrogation, Natasha stood up as calmly as she could, keeping her cool. She didn't want to make a scene because that was what people who didn't know how to control themselves did, and she wasn't like that. She wasn't a child throwing a tantrum. She was a grown-up woman who wanted answers, and since she wasn't going to get them, she wasn't going to stick around and go through this sentimental bullshit Phil Coulson was pulling on her. "Thank you for this, sir," she said, her lips twitching in a sweet, fake smile. "I have a session with my doctor though, so I need to go."

She nodded politely and Coulson sighed, letting her go. Another agent stopped her on her way out, Maria Hill, to ask her if she minded giving some training lessons to new recruits and Natasha agreed eagerly. It wasn't so much that she liked the idea of teaching or socializing, but anything that could take her mind off of her partner being gone and this nagging feeling her conversation with Coulson had given her was very welcome.

* * *

As Natasha reached the elevator, she contemplated skipping her appointment. She didn't feel like talking. All she really felt like doing was either curl up in bed for an undefined period of time or throw knives at something. So she didn't understand why her feet still dragged her to the doctor's office.

"Everything I say in here is a secret, right?" she asked him as she opened the door and went straight to sit on the chair facing his desk.

"Basically, yeah," the therapist said, a small, amused smile tugging at his lips. "Unless you confess to a murder. I'm supposed to report that kind of things."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Do you _know_ where you are, Doc?" she asked, before shaking her head. "Anyway. If I open up and _talk_, will you go report to Coulson or Fury or whoever you report to and tell them I'm fine and they can trust me?"

He frowned. "I don't report to anybody, Agent Romanoff."

Natasha sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. "Then why am I still here?" she asked, feeling oh so tired of the way everybody treated her like she wasn't smart enough to see what was going on. "I've come to see you for eight months. I've sat there and talked for eight months. Just tell me what I need to do so they stop looking at me like I'm a threat."

"Are you?" he asked in return.

"No!" Natasha said, angry now. "Do you realize what I've done? I betrayed my country. I betrayed the people who made me. If I go out there, I'm dead. _Why_ would I screw this up and betray S.H.I.E.L.D.?" She stared back at him, confused green eyes pleading for answers.

"If things were different," he started, "if you could leave S.H.I.E.L.D., if no one out there was after you, would you? Would you go back to working for whoever pays most?"

Natasha bit her lip and looked away, giving herself a moment to think. She was scared of how easily the answer came to her. _No_. Given the choice between going back to who she was, nothing more than an assassin, and who she had become, Natasha would always pick what she had now. And the reason why that choice was so easy scared her even more. "No," she just replied, hoping it would be enough.

Of course, it wasn't. "Why?" the therapist pushed.

"Because I have a partner I care about, okay?" Natasha exclaimed, frustrated. She lifted a hand to pinch the ridge of her nose, splaying her fingers over both her eyes. She didn't want to talk about Clint. All she wanted was to get him back. "I owe him everything. I'd never betray him."

"Is this about Agent Barton?" he pressed. "I always need to ask you a dozen questions before you start talking, and you usually answer with some truth hidden by a lot of lies. This is the first time you've actually sounded like you wanted to talk," he finished, the right corner of his mouth tugging up in a smile.

"He left this morning," Natasha replied, tilting her head to focus her gaze on that ugly painting behind his desk. She did that a lot, focus on something, anything but the soft, brown eyes of the man facing her. She was getting tired of nice people and the way they made her feel.

"And how does that make you feel?"

She was tired of that question, too. But she was also tired of coming here every week, so instead of pressing her lips in a tight smile and spill lies, Natasha said the truth for once. "I feel like someone ripped the rug out from under me when I had finally found some stable ground," she confessed. "He's gone and all I want to know is where he is and if he's okay. Is that so much to ask?"

"No," the therapist replied. "No, it's not. He's your partner, and your lives depend on caring about each other. But you don't have the clearance to know that information," he added uselessly. "I'm sorry."

Natasha looked him in the eye then, feeling fresh tears of frustration and anger and something that felt innately like hurt – she might as well admit it – well up in her eyes. "Then what's the point of any of this?" she asked. "Why do I have to come here and talk to you if all I'm ever going to be is a problem no one knows how to deal with? This isn't about clearance. This is about trust, Doc," she continued. "They say they trust me enough to send me out there and risk my life for them, but not with my partner's whereabouts? This is not trust. This is them using me. And I'm tired of being used. Why don't you go tell them that?"

With that, Natasha stood up, and without a last glance at her therapist, she left, slamming the door.

Slamming the door was childish and she'd never been a child, but it felt good.

* * *

She started counting the days without realizing it.

On day five, she excused herself from a training lesson after giving combat tips to two young new recruits. They gave her a confused look for a second before going back to sparring, and Natasha sprinted off, ignoring people's questioning looks in the hallways on her way out. It wasn't until she'd pushed the door leading to the roof, the soft morning breeze brushing her face, that she released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She was being ridiculous, and Natasha knew it. But that kid's name was Burton, and this was too much, it hit too close, and she missed Clint and she could feel that constant ache in her heart, fear paralyzing her all day as she kept thinking about him. Where was he? Was he okay? When would he come back? And whenever she found herself thinking about him, Natasha hated herself for it, for her weakness, that fondness she had for him that was so dangerous.

On day nine, she slept in his bed. It was silly and sentimental but she was tired and lonely, and she didn't get much rest in her own room. She wrapped herself in his hoodie and shirt and sheets, pretending they still smelled like him, and it was the best night of sleep she had, if startling awake twice instead of four or five times was considered an improvement. After that night she gave up on trying to fall asleep in her bed and went to his directly.

It'd been twelve days since Clint left when Coulson pulled her aside and told her he was fine. Natasha tried to push, but Coulson was gone before she could say anything, and it didn't matter, really. It didn't, because Clint was alive, he was okay, and her heart raced in her chest, threatening to explode and she didn't care. He was fine. She repeated it to herself like a mantra all day, he was fine, he was alive, and for the first time in forever she prayed, begging for him to stay that way.

Five days later, her happy little bubble burst out as Coulson summoned her to the conference room, and she found herself facing Nick Fury. Coulson left them alone, and she schooled her face, a confident, almost arrogant smile adorning her lips as the man invited her to sit.

"Agent Romanoff," he said as he sat too, facing her, and rested his elbows on the table, his chin tucked on his hands. "Can I call you Natasha?" he asked.

"Can I call you Nick?" she asked in return, folding her arms over her chest.

"Sounds fair," Fury said. "I have a problem, Natasha," he continued, not beating around the bush. Natasha liked that. She didn't like small talk and civilities. "You're a great spy, and S.H.I.E.L.D. could use that. And yet you spend your days here, wasting those skills."

"That's what happens when you give me even less clearance than new recruits or kids at the academy," she replied evenly. It was hard not to take it personally, the innate suspicion she could feel in his lone eye, even if Clint had told her Nick Fury wasn't the friendly type. She understood why, but after eight months, after having painted a target on her back for the rest of her life, Natasha kind of expected a little more respect, if not trust.

It was nice, that he trusted her abilities, maybe even admired them and her a little, but she would have appreciated it if someone other than Clint trusted her loyalty. Loyalty was a new concept to her, something she'd never experienced before Clint, and for the first time in her life, Natasha was seeking approval and validation. She needed someone to vouch for her. Clint would defend her against anyone, she knew it; he was a fool, but the kindest fool, and he called her human and real and beautiful, so much that she'd started to believe it. She liked, against all odds, being _his_ – his partner, his friend, his protégée. But she also wanted to _belong_; if they trusted her, then she wouldn't be having this conversation, and she wouldn't be worrying about her partner with no solid information about him except that he was fine five days ago.

"How about we change that?" Fury offered.

Natasha frowned, suspicious. Everything came with a price, she remembered. "Why the sudden change?" she asked, willing herself not to sound too enthusiastic and keep her neutral cool.

Fury's lips pressed in a thin line, and he pushed a file towards her. Natasha opened it, finding herself staring back at Clint's grayish green eyes. "What is this?" she asked, her fingers itching to trace the picture, but she resisted, looking up at Fury.

"Agent Barton called in for evac six hours ago. He never got to the rallying point."

Natasha was up on her feet before Fury had finished his sentence. "When am I leaving?" she asked, tucking the folder against her chest.

Fury smiled at her, a somewhat proud gleam in his eye. "Agent Coulson's waiting for you in the jet."

Natasha didn't need to be told twice.

* * *

_to be continued_


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N**: As always, thank you for the support and the feedback. Hope you enjoy this one, too. :)

* * *

Natasha sprinted to her quarters, grabbing her go-bag and her weapons. She had no doubt that S.H.I.E.L.D. would provide her and Coulson with enough weapons and ammunitions to start a war, but she didn't feel comfortable wading into battle without her own. She slipped her knives in their usual places except for the one she'd given Clint and shook her head at the thought, forcing herself to reach the mindset of the Black Widow, the cold, calculated and efficient assassin she'd been and not the woman she'd become, soft and caring, vulnerable, human_, weak_. If Clint was there he would tell her that being vulnerable didn't make her weak, but he _wasn't_ there, and it was precisely the reason why she needed to go back to the person she was before him in order to find him. Natasha was excellent but the Widow was better; the Widow would break bones and cut fingers if it could bring him back, something Natasha wouldn't do so easily anymore because of – or _thanks to_ – her partner's sense of morality and how important it'd become to her to line up her own actions on it. But she knew that if she needed to, _for_ him she would.

Natasha gave the room a quick last glance, trying to see if she'd forgotten anything useful, and then she tucked her gun in the back of her jeans and the rest of her collection in her bag before running back to the elevator. Coulson opened his mouth as she stepped in the jet, but she cut him off by raising her hand. "I'm fine, sir," she said, feeling her throat close up as she spoke the words. She wasn't. And he wasn't, either. Natasha would never pretend that what was going on between Clint and her ran deeper than the bond he shared with his mentor, but this wasn't about who cared the most about Clint. This was about bringing him home, and they wouldn't achieve that by getting sentimental and asking each other if they were fine. Natasha took a seat opposite him and placed the folder Fury had given her on the small table in between. "Now would be a good time to tell me what happened to my partner," she said, not even hiding the plea in her voice.

Coulson sighed, and in a rare moment of vulnerability, she saw the comforting warmth of him fade, only to be replaced by the sheer terror he was feeling. He leaned his elbows on the table, linking his fingers together to still their fidgety movement. "Have you ever heard of Hydra, Natasha?" he asked. When she nodded, he went on, "Hydra's level of technology is so highly advanced that we do _not_ need them to make any more progress on that front. So one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s first objectives is to make sure we get scientists and engineers out of their way."

"Under S.H.I.E.L.D.'s control, you mean?" Natasha probed, raising a skeptical eyebrow at Coulson.

His brow furrowed for a second before it relaxed, and Coulson's mouth twitched up in a small smile. "I'm not going to pretend that S.H.I.E.L.D. has always made the best choices, Natasha. But when your enemy isn't playing by the book, you can't just sit there and watch." Natasha looked away, and Coulson surprised her when he reached out to take her hand. She surprised him in return when she didn't pull away. "I know you have no reason to believe me. But I can assure you that we would never do to them what _you_ went through," he said, his voice turning to that soft, fatherly undertone. "This isn't about mind control and world domination. This is about making sure that Hydra doesn't get to them first. And sure, we do need scientists and engineers on our side. It doesn't mean we torture them. Sometimes we have to do questionable things, but we know what we stand for – what _you_ stand for, now, too. Being an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. means something. It does carry weight," he finished.

Natasha was still skeptical and slightly uncomfortable, but found herself pulling her hand away gently with a nod of her head. She had to admit it, Phil Coulson was really good; the worst part was that he meant every word he'd said, pouring his heart and soul into the agency he thought of as more than a job, and Natasha felt a little pang at her heart, a longing for something she could delve herself in and truly feel a part of. Maybe S.H.I.E.L.D. would be that for her one day, but for now, despite Coulson's rallying speech, Natasha knew that her allegiance was to Clint. "So you sent Clint after one of these scientists?" she asked, focusing on the mission again.

"Director Fury made the call," Coulson corrected her. "S.H.I.E.L.D. has been tracking the whereabouts of this man for months," he said, opening the file and pushing a picture towards her of a man in his fifties with pale blond hair and blue eyes hidden by large, round glasses. "Dr. Matthäus Köhler, biochem. He's been working on replicating the serum they used on Captain America back in the day, which could be really dangerous in the wrong hands," Coulson explained. "He's been on the run for the past two years. Everybody we know is after him, including Hydra. We found out he was hiding in Poland, probably at the same time they did. Clint's mission was to bring Dr. Köhler back and eliminate the Hydra agent if their paths crossed."

"Why Clint?" Natasha asked, finding herself drawn to his picture in the file, and this time when she felt the urge to touch it, she didn't fight it. Tracing his face with her fingers, she allowed herself a moment to take him in, healthy and alive, refusing to accept it could be the last time, before she looked up at Coulson. "Why _him_? Why did it have to be him?"

Coulson let out a heavy sigh, rubbing at the spot between his brows with his fingers. "He's our best sniper and he's fluent in Polish and at least five other Eastern European languages, which are two quite _uncommon_ qualities among our agents. Besides, he's one of the best," Coulson finished, the pride obvious in his tone as he talked about his agent.

Natasha felt herself smile despite everything. It was ridiculous, how proud she felt of him when she had nothing to do with his skills. The Room had made her; starved her until she ran faster, let her freeze until she'd grown a second set of skin, tougher and thicker and impossible to pierce, layers of lies and deception nobody could ever peel. She had no idea who or what had made Clint, what he was running from or where he was running to, but she knew one thing: he was the best they'd ever sent after her, the only one she would call an equal, and she was proud of him. Proud that he was her partner, proud that this man whose best skill was to go unnoticed because people underestimated him was in fact the best agent she'd ever crossed paths with. And yet, in that moment, she wished he wasn't. Maybe, just maybe then, he'd be safe and sound, back in New York with her where he belonged. "So what happened?" Natasha pressed, mirroring Coulson's earlier actions and lacing her fingers together, not to still them but to keep herself from touching Clint's picture again. "Five days ago you told me he was fine. What happened?"

"He _was_ fine," Coulson insisted, sensing the accusation and suspicion in her tone. He would have never lied to her about this. "Five days ago he called in from Poznań to let us know that he'd eliminated the threat, but that Köhler had somehow managed to run away again. Three days later he took a plane to Germany where Köhler had been seen on a camera surveillance in Hamburg. He found him, took him to one of our bolt-holes and then called in for evac from there six hours ago. The team was supposed to meet him five hours later in another town, forty miles west. He never got there. He's not answering his phone, and his GPS tracker has been disconnected."

"What about the team we have on the field?" Natasha asked. "He's been missing for an hour and they haven't found anything yet?"

Coulson could hear the rising anger in her tone, the anguish too she couldn't conceal, and how she _needed_ to find someone to be angry at, even if he knew that the only one she really blamed was herself – she was so much like Clint that Coulson wondered if he'd rubbed off on her or if they were just meant to be together, one mind shared in two bodies. He could see it on her features, the tense set of her jaw and shoulders, the way she'd tightly laced her fingers until her knuckles were white, the fire sparking in her green eyes that threatened to consume her. She was angry at Fury for sending Clint in Poland on his own, sure, but mostly she felt guilty for not being there to have her partner's back. Coulson had to admit that if someone had told him eight months ago that the infamous Black Widow would worry herself sick over the man who'd been sent to kill her, he would have probably laughed at them. But here she was, beautiful and tragic, never admitting to any pain but being overwhelmed by her emotions when it came to her partner. And yet she also seemed incredibly focused at the same time, turning her desperation into sheer drive; he had no doubt that Natasha would do absolutely _anything_ to get Clint back.

_That_ scared him a little, there was no point denying it.

"They're on their way to the safe house Clint called them from as we speak," Coulson said. "They divided into two teams, and the other is searching for him and Köhler, but it's not that easy. We have no idea when and where he went missing."

The implications behind his words dawned on Natasha, and she felt her heart skip a beat. For all they knew, the team could perfectly end up finding two dead bodies in that house. It was a possibility they couldn't ignore, and it was something _she_ needed to prepare herself for – but how was she supposed to _ever_ be ready for this? She'd never had something she cared about more than her own survival, and even that she didn't hold onto as dearly as she did Clint now. Before him everything was red and dead, blood on her hands and her soul, fleeting memories and blurry eyes and pounding migraines as they poured her out to put someone else back in. But now she _was_ Natasha. She had the right to _be_ and _feel_ and she was making new, _real_ memories, and she owed it to Clint – that debt she knew she could never repay. At first she'd thought it was her life she owed to him – the very fact that she was still breathing – but it was more than that. Natasha couldn't imagine living in a world where the man who'd given her such a precious gift, a second chance or her first real one, didn't exist.

She stared off in the distance, unable to look Coulson in the eye when her mind was on such a whirl and her heart kept missing beats. She'd always underestimated the weight of heartache because _everything_ used to ache, but thinking of Clint and imagining the worst was actually the worst she'd ever felt. It was worse than being shot or stabbed, worse than feeling somebody's hands on her, her body just an envelope filled with someone else's laughter and moans and tears. It was worse because she'd never thought of her heart as anything else but a vital organ, pumping blood on her system; all the sentimentality linked to it in stupid movies and songs had always sounded ridiculous to her. But here, now, Natasha was learning exactly how much a heart could take – and she felt like hers couldn't take a lot more.

Natasha focused her gaze on the clouds, trying to let the beautiful sight lull her into peace, and she breathed in and out slowly until her heart stopped pounding in her chest. She wasn't so lucky with the migraine she could feel coming, little invisible swords stabbing the back of her eyelids, and she allowed herself a break, leaning into her seat and closing her eyes. They would be in Hamburg in a few hours, and she knew she should get as much rest as she could until then; once there, all her focus and energy would be spent on searching for Clint.

She'd go to hell for him if she needed to.

She didn't sleep – couldn't – but she pretended to when she felt Coulson spread a blanket over her. She didn't trust him enough, not yet, maybe not ever, to sleep at ease beside him; Clint was the only one she could let herself relax with, and who was she kidding, pretending she could sleep when he was out there, most likely fighting for his life or dead in a ditch?

It wasn't supposed to go this way. If any of them was supposed to go off the grid and die, it had to be _her_. Natasha had spent her life running, knowing damn well that she could only outrun her fate for so long. She'd been twelve the first time she felt blood on her hands, the hot, thick stream of red getting under her nails and on her clothes; she'd learned since then how to be precise, neat and cut and dry, and yet no matter how many times she washed her hands she could still feel the blood on them, the weight of the dead heavy on her soul – she often wondered if she still had one, if she'd _ever_ had one. She'd only reached her teen years because she'd outdone herself to be the best; she'd reached her twenties with a ledger the General was proud of and the other girls at the Room envied in the sick, twisted way they'd been raised to compete with each other for the slightest bit of recognition and privileges their number of kills would get them. But if she was honest, Natasha didn't think she'd ever hit thirty, especially not now that she'd defected and brought onto herself even more enemies than she could count.

And in spite of all of that, Clint was the one missing.

She couldn't help but wonder for a moment what the point of being good and doing the right thing was, in the end, if things like this still happened.

* * *

Natasha went back to Widow mode as soon as she felt the jet start to land. She was grateful for the look of intent focus in Coulson's eyes; she had to admit she'd underestimated the man, calling him weak when his caring seemed to make him strong, resolute and bent on moving heaven and earth to find his agent. She didn't know anything about Coulson's experience on the field, but she knew that his level eight clearance meant he knew what he was doing; and she knew he'd been on the field with Clint, had saved his life once, and that was the only thing that mattered – surely two people who cared that much about Clint could bring him back alive.

Coulson had gotten a call from the team that had gone to the safe house where Clint and the doctor had stayed. Nothing was disturbed there, and there was no evidence of a fight; everything looked normal if it wasn't for Clint's car still parked in front of the house, meaning that he'd never gotten to drive to the rallying point and that whatever happened to him had happened between the call he'd made for evacuation and the moment he should have left. They'd also found a second set of tire tracks leading to the safe house, but the lack of evidence of somebody else's presence there made it difficult to be sure that whoever was driving had to have Clint and Köhler.

Coulson had then ordered the agents to join the rest of their team in their search for him, and despite Natasha's protest, decided to stop by the house first. "You're his partner," he had said, "and I've known him for years. If there's anything in that house that can tell us where he is or what happened, _we're_ the ones most likely to find it." Natasha understood that, but it didn't mean that she wasn't frustrated. Her partner was out there and time was running out for him. People didn't just _disappear_; even if Clint had had to change his plan, he would have found a way to contact Coulson by now to let him know. She had to assume he was detained, injured, or dead, and the list of people and organizations that could be responsible for that wasn't short. Searching the house sounded like a waste of time that Clint didn't have, but Natasha ended up nodding her head at Coulson and following him.

The house was more of an isolated cabin in the outskirts of the city, surrounded by woods that were ideal to hide, and perched on a little hill that gave a great view on the road and eventual visitors or assailants. Natasha couldn't help but think that this was the kind of place Clint would love to live in, a small nest in the middle of nowhere that perfectly suited him, inviting, warm and cozy with just the right touch of privacy that they _both_ needed so much; she mentally chided herself for thinking like that.

"You okay, Natasha?" Coulson asked, giving her a concerned look. She nodded, and he tilted his head to the house. "I'll take a look inside."

As Coulson stepped inside, Natasha first checked the windows and doors. There was no sign of a break-in, no broken glass or picked lock, which was conclusive with the idea that if a fight had happened, it hadn't taken place inside. The very idea of a fight was almost ruled out anyway because she knew Clint; if he hadn't taken his car then it meant he had taken to the woods, and there was no way somebody, even less multiple assailants, could hide the evidence of their presence there. Even with Köhler slowing him down, Clint would have had the advantage of seeing his assailants coming from the hill, and since he wasn't expecting anyone, anybody driving up that lane would have been considered an assailant. But then why wasn't there any evidence of two bodies being dragged up back to the house and forced into a car? Clint wouldn't have gone down without a fight, and there was no way they – _whoever_ they were – could have erased every trace of blood or fight.

It made no sense.

Until it did.

If there was no evidence of a fight, it was because there _hadn't_ been a fight. And if there hadn't been a fight, then it meant that they'd managed to lure Clint out and take him down from a _distance_. It was kind of ironic, Natasha thought, a sniper being taken down by another one, except it wasn't funny or clever because it was her partner. Looking around, Natasha tried to find the best spot for a sniper to wait patiently while being hidden enough for Clint not to have spotted them. She frowned as she didn't find any. Clint was a sniper; the first thing he would have done when getting there was to check all these spots with that innate sixth sense he had about these things. He was trained to think like that, watch and observe, and he would have noticed it if something had been wrong.

Natasha heard Coulson rummaging through the house, and she walked away, stopping at the car. Clint's go-bag, along with his bow and quiver, were on the backseat, which meant that he had to be ready to leave when it happened – his bow was his most prized possession, and she'd seen him clean and polish it with a delicacy that was quite unusual for him, so there was no way he would have left it in his car for hours. Natasha looked down at the ground, trying to see if she could find the keys, and she was about to call out to Coulson to ask if the team had found them when she spotted it, a faint trace of white powder on the door handle; it was barely there, and with the wind howling since they'd gotten there, it was easy to mistaken it for dirt or pollen. But Natasha was Russian – or at least, she used to be, she didn't really know anymore – and Russians had an affinity with poison. It was smooth and elegant, almost a tradition in their ranks, a little bit cliché but very efficient. Natasha had never been quite fond of it, but she knew exactly _who_ was.

She felt the emotion bubble up in her throat, and before she could cover it with her hand it escaped her mouth, a tiny, strangled cry that soon turned into a full scream. Natasha pressed her hand against her lips forcefully, biting down on her fingers to quiet herself but it didn't work; she could feel her heart threatening to beat out of her chest, her blood rushing painfully to her head, and God, this couldn't be happening. She felt her vision go blurry, tears welling in her eyes that she couldn't stop, couldn't hold back, and her legs started wobbling. If it wasn't for Coulson running to her, alarmed by her screaming, and cupping her shoulders with his hands, Natasha was sure they wouldn't have held her weight very long. "Natasha," he spoke, his voice firm but gentle. When she didn't stop shaking, her green eyes wide as if she'd seen a ghost, he tentatively moved one of his hands up to her face, laying it on her cheek. The very fact that she didn't flinch away was enough to tell Coulson something was very wrong. "Natasha," he repeated, "Talk to me. What's going on?"

"They found him," she murmured, her voice trembling as she spoke the words and the harsh reality of them dawned on her.

"Who?" Coulson asked, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What are you talking about, Natasha?" Gently, he let his hands drop to her arms and dragged her to the front porch, sitting her on the steps. Lowering himself in front of her, he tilted his head to meet her eyes. "Natasha."

She breathed hard and lifted her hand to her eyes, wiping away the tears. Forcing herself to look back at Coulson, Natasha realized that she was almost as afraid of telling him as she was of the situation they were in. How was he going to react to the news that she'd brought nothing but trouble to the one person they both cared about, that it was her fault, all her fault, if Clint was missing? "I found poison on the car," she said, her voice nothing but a low murmur over the pounding of her heart at her temple. "That has the Room written all over it. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she apologized, the lump in her throat heavier by the minute.

Natasha expected him to get angry – she'd been raised to expect severe punishment if she ever disappointed – so saying she was taken aback when he _didn't_ was the understatement of the year. Instead, Coulson just squeezed her knee, the concern in his eyes, both for her and Clint, obvious as he stared back at her. "We knew this would happen eventually," he said very calmly. "We knew they would find out you're not dead and that they'd come after you or Clint. This is not your fault, Natasha," he assured her, and he sounded so genuine that he almost convinced her.

_Almost_.

The official story was simple, because the simplest lies were the ones people bought the most. It involved an archer from S.H.I.E.L.D., a set of explosive arrows, a warehouse bursting into flames and a spider tangled in her fiery web. They knew that it would only buy them a little time, but they'd hoped that Natasha's ex-employers would go after her _later_ than sooner. At first Natasha had thought that they had all gone mad, Clint, Coulson and Fury, taking her in as if they did it every day, welcoming rogue Soviet spies within their home. The real fear, not for her life but for Clint's, had come as she'd gotten to know him and care. She'd known that the General would have no rest until they both paid, she for her disobedience and betrayal and Clint for his role in her defection; and she'd hoped, naïvely so, that when the day came she'd be able to protect him and take the full blame on her own. If she had needed to, Natasha would have sacrificed herself for him, just like Clint had put his own life and career at risk for her; this partnership, this relationship of theirs, was nothing but a never-ending circle of danger and debt and death, and she could only ever repay him for what he'd done by doing the same in return for him. She _knew_ it. Natasha was very well aware of the fact that this would end badly; it didn't mean that she hadn't prayed it wouldn't. Was it so wrong of her to want this _one_ thing to go right in her life for once?

"Natasha," Coulson spoke again, and Natasha admired his calm when she was nothing but a wreck, one stupid archer with a child's eyes and a kind heart managing to shake her to the very core. "I need you to focus right now. Can you do that?" he asked.

She honestly didn't know the answer. Natasha was so new to all of this, feelings and emotions taking over, keeping her from thinking straight; she didn't know how to deal with that. She'd never been so overwhelmed, because she'd never cared about anyone before. Maybe caring made Coulson stronger and gave him a reason to fight, but caring was threatening to _kill_ her. Still, she nodded her head. Swallowing hard, she gave herself a moment to think before she spoke. "They were waiting for us – for _me_ – to show up," she said. "They're not going to kill him until they have me back, or else we would have already found his body."

"Okay," Coulson said, and she had to give him credit for how calm he remained despite hearing that. "How do we find him now? How do they know you're here?" he pressed.

Natasha pressed her palms to her eyes, wiping the last tears from her face as she cleared her head. It hit her then, like the news of Clint having gone missing had – there was only one person who could have managed to get the upper hand on Clint and outsmarted him, and that person was Natasha herself. She was the best the Room had ever trained, the one the other girls hated and envied. And since it wasn't her, then it had to be… "Sasha," she murmured, slowly lowering her hands from her face. She looked up and around, her red curls bouncing with the motion as she scanned her surroundings.

Coulson mirrored her, turning to look around him. "What is it, Natasha?" he asked. "Talk to me."

Just as quickly as she'd fallen apart, Natasha pulled herself back together. The unknown she was terrified of; but knowing her enemy empowered her. "Her name's Alexandra Pavlenkova," she said as she stood up, brushing the dust off of her jeans. "She was trained with me at the Room. We've both hated each other since we were ten. I bet you she was oh so glad to take on this assignment."

"Why does she hate you?" Coulson asked, getting on his feet too. He shook his head then, a small, somewhat proud smile tugging at his lips. "Better question: how do we find her?"

"In Moscow, being second best means you're no better than the bottom of the class, and Sasha's ego never fully recovered," Natasha explained quickly. There was more to it than ego and Natasha knew Coulson was aware of that; but there was no time to explain how deep the hatred between Sasha and her ran, how many humiliations and punishments the other woman had gone through because she could never come on top of their constant competition. "And we don't need to find her," she went on. "_She_ will call us. She's probably watching us right now, enjoying the show," she said, looking around her again. "There has to be a camera somewhere. I know her. I know her methods. She plays with her targets, and she's playing with us too. _With me_. She wants me to know it's her, that she's got Clint and that I need to play by her rules."

Coulson stared at her for a minute, taking it all in – and it was a damn lot, Natasha knew it. She still half expected him to yell, so she was once again surprised when he just gestured for her to follow him inside. "We've got a team here, Natasha," he said, "and there's you and me. We'll get him back," he assured her with a confidence that she felt warming her. She rarely underestimated her enemies, and Natasha knew better than to underestimate Alexandra; but there was something in Coulson's tone and posture, the knowledge that he would do anything for Clint, that gave her strength and hope.

Coulson was on the phone with the team, letting them know who they were looking for, when Clint's phone that they'd found earlier rang. Leaving it behind was a good way for Alexandra to make sure they wouldn't be able to trace its location and find her, but also to contact them. Coulson turned to her, telling the other agent to hang on as he rested his phone against his neck and nodded at Clint's. Grabbing it, Natasha put it on speaker and cleared her throat before answering, her voice perfectly calm as she spoke. "Sasha," she greeted coldly.

The woman on the other end of the line laughed. "_Talia_," she said, her tone light, almost playful. "_I can't believe that's you. What have they done to you? You don't cry_," she went on, giving Natasha the confirmation that there was a camera somewhere and that Alexandra was watching them. "_I'm so very sorry your little American boyfriend got in the middle of_ –"

"Just tell me where and when you want to meet," Natasha interrupted her. She wasn't in the mood for Alexandra's mind games – no, right now, the only thing she could think about was slitting her throat open.

Alexandra laughed again. "_And here I thought we could play catch up and talk about our feelings. Guess I was wrong_." She sobered, her tone just as icy as Natasha's. "_One hour. Drive up north, I'll send you the address. And, Talia?_" she added, "_There will be no need to bring your American friends along. I would hate to have to make your dear Hawkeye pay for it, you know?" _she taunted, and Natasha could just imagine the stupid smirk on her lips.

She hung up before Natasha could curse at her in Russian.

"You're not going alone," Coulson spoke immediately before she could say anything. "This is not how we work."

"But it's how Sasha works," Natasha countered. "You heard her. She _will_ kill him. The only reason why he's still alive is because she wants to play with me."

"And if you go alone she'll kill _you_," Coulson replied, and as he spoke the words, he realized that Natasha was perfectly aware of that fact, but didn't care. "We're a team, Natasha," he went on, "and we'll go home as a team. Do you understand me?" he asked, meeting her eyes.

Natasha slowly nodded. She _understood_. But it didn't mean she had to listen to him. Her partner was in danger, and she wasn't going to do anything to put him in more danger. "I'm sorry," she offered.

Coulson frowned at her apology, and it was all he had time to do before her leg kicked out, knocking him out cold.

* * *

The first thing that Clint noticed as he came back to his senses was that he felt hangover, sweat beading on his skin and a furious headache pounding at his temple. But it was worse than he'd ever felt before, little swords stabbing the back of his eyelids and his blood racing painfully in his veins.

The second was the fact that he was tied up, metal shackles wrapped around his wrists and his arms held above his head, tied to a pipe. His ankles were tied together by a thick rope that he wouldn't tear with his teeth even if he somehow managed to bend enough and try. He'd spent years in the circus and he was a very skilled acrobat, true, but even he wasn't that flexible.

The third thing, and maybe this one was the only thing he should have really been worried about, was his brother Barney straddling the back of a chair across the room and staring at him with an infuriating grin on his lips. "Sleeping Beauty awakens," Barney said in a sing-song voice. "I was starting to get bored."

Clint closed his eyes again, breathing in deeply. Barney wasn't really there; he _had_ to either be dreaming or hallucinating – and this wouldn't be the first time that his brother had come back to haunt him. Barney couldn't be here; and even if he was here, he certainly wouldn't look like _that_. He looked exactly like he had the last time Clint had seen him all these years ago at the bus depot when Barney had decided to enlist in the army. His brother had wanted him to follow him and leave the circus behind, but Clint had first said no. When he'd finally changed his mind, it was too late; the bus had already departed, and all Clint remembered from his brother was the back of his head through the bus window, a red cap on top of his freshly cut brown hair. Wherever the real Barney was now, he surely didn't know that Clint had been there, standing in the rain as he watched the last person tethering him to his family go forever. They'd never gotten along, he and Barney, always at odds, always fighting, but Clint used to believe that no matter what, they'd still _always_ have each other.

Jesus, how he'd been wrong.

"You're not really here," Clint croaked, his voice hoarse and husky. His throat was dry and he was thirsty, and every word he managed to let out was a struggle. "This…it's all in my head," he murmured to himself.

Barney laughed. "Of course this is all in your head, little brother," he said as he stood up and dragged his chair closer to Clint. If this was all in his head, then why did Clint cringe at the sound the chair made on the hard floor? Barney seemed to notice it, and of course, enjoyed it immensely as he chuckled. "It doesn't mean I'm not really here, though. I'm _always_ here. And you can close your eyes and blink and try to pinch your hand all you want, I'm not going anywhere," he added as Clint did just that, reaching for the back of his palm to pinch his skin.

Clint sighed heavily, closing and opening his eyes repeatedly; but like Barney had warned him, he didn't disappear. He just sat there, looking down at him and smirking. Shaking his head and moving his legs in the hope to get some feeling back in his body, Clint winced at the pain he felt throbbing in his head. "Okay, think," he coached himself, closing his eyes again because even the dim light in the room hurt his eyes. His mouth and tongue were dry, and he swallowed with difficulty. He felt giddy and numb at the same time, his skin burning hot, his breathing coming by hard and fast, pain blossoming everywhere in his system as if he'd been beaten down, though he had no memory of it. His vision was blurry, and no matter how many times he blinked his eyes and tried to water them, everything around him was moving closer, the light, the walls, even Barney.

He'd been poisoned. _Great_.

Opening his eyes again, he tilted his head, suddenly remembering his mission. He'd found Matthäus Köhler and brought him back to the safe house; but where was he now? He was nowhere to be seen, but Clint didn't trust himself; his vision was so blurry that the man could be lying next to him that he wouldn't see him. For some twisted reason, the only thing he saw almost perfectly was Barney's smirk.

"What's up, little brother?" Barney asked. "You don't look good. I wonder what Ariana would say if she saw you. Even she wouldn't kiss your ugly face right now," he mocked.

"You're not real. I'm not talking to you," Clint hissed through clenched teeth.

Barney's mouth stretched into a grotesque smile. "And yet, here you are," he shrugged. "Did you miss me?" he asked after a moment with that ridiculous sing-song voice that reminded Clint of a younger Barney, a mischievous kid with a big mouth and an affinity for trouble that he used to look up to so much when he was just a little boy, before things had gone to hell between them.

"Shut up," Clint said as he tried to focus on his breathing, still uneven and heavy.

"Riddle me this," Barney started, "if this is all in your head, and you're telling me to shut up, aren't you basically telling _yourself_ to shut up?" He frowned, thumbnail between his teeth as he actually seemed to give it a thought. "This is messed up, Clint. Your head is a scary place."

"You're talking about messed up?" Clint replied, his head hurting too much to care about the fact that he was talking to a memory or a ghost or whatever it was that his mind had conjured up under the guise of his older brother. "You know what's messed up? Leaving me behind when you were all that I had left," Clint spat, angry now. "I was just a damn kid, Barney, and you left without a last glance."

It didn't seem to unsettle Barney at all. If anything, Clint's little outburst only amused him. "You've always thought you were better than the rest of us," he said, disdain in his dark blue eyes. "Who were we compared to the great, talented, righteous Clint Barton, uh?"

"I never said that," Clint defended himself. At this point he didn't even know why he was still replying, or who he was really talking to, Barney or himself. This was all in his head, and what Barney had just said, he'd heard it in his head for years now, that little voice inside telling him that the only reason why he hadn't immediately accepted to follow Barney was because he thought he could do better than him – _be better_.

"You didn't need to _say_ it," Barney spat, "you always acted like it. Showing off with your bow, getting all the attention. You thought you were above me, well, guess what, little brother?" Barney taunted, getting up from his chair to sit cross-legged in front of Clint, his chin tucked on top of his linked hands. "_You're not_. After all, I'm not the one hallucinating about my long-lost brother while I'm slowly dying."

"I'm not gonna die," Clint groaned, his eyes pressed tightly shut not to see Barney's stupid smirk anymore. "I'm gonna find a way out. I'm not gonna die."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," a female voice said, and Clint blinked his eyes open in surprise.

He didn't know that voice. After Barney, he'd expected Ariana, but that wasn't her voice. The back of his eyelids burned, and he had to blink another couple times before making out the shape of the woman standing above him. She bent then, her face just mere inches from his, and all he could focus on was the green of her eyes. "Tash," he murmured, "Tasha…is that you?"

The woman laughed, a light, girly giggle. "Not quite, I'm sorry," she apologized, not sounding sorry at all. "Is this how you call her?" she asked. "_Tasha_? Well, if you want, we can get to know each other better while we wait for Tasha to get here?" she offered, a row of pearly whites flashing before Clint's eyes as she smiled. "Would you be okay with that?"

"Who are you?" Clint murmured, his mind racing fast as he tried to figure out if the woman was real or another hallucination.

Her smile grew bigger as she pulled back, extending her hand to him before laughing again as if she only remembered now that he was cuffed. "My name's Alexandra," she said, "but my friends call me Sasha. And I think that you and I are going to be great friends. Don't you think, Hawkeye?"

"What do you want?" Clint asked tiredly. When did he start feeling so tired?

"Oh, just this one thing we _both_ seem to want," she replied, her fingers gently tracing the curve of his jaw, almost affectionate. "Natasha."

* * *

_to be continued_


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N**: First of all, I'm sorry for the delay for this one. Life's been busy and I haven't had the occasion to sit down and write in a while. Thanks again for the feedback, it's very much appreciated. Hope you enjoy. :)

**Warning**: use of the f-word, and mentions of torture on teens. This is a story about Natasha Romanoff, after all.

* * *

Clint wanted to fight, deny that he knew what the woman was talking about; but even in his foggy state of mind, Clint was still aware of the fact that she seemed to know Natalia and Natasha were the same person, which meant that Moscow knew Natasha was still alive – and _he_ had been the one stupidly babbling out her name in the first place. Biting on his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, Clint hoped that the sharp pain would help him focus and think straight; it only made him feel nauseous instead. He coughed, the taste of copper invading his mouth, and he felt even sicker as Alexandra brought her hand to his face again, wiping the blood away with her thumb.

"Oh, come on now, _Clint_, isn't it?" she cajoled, gracefully sinking to her knees to sit beside him, her free hand on his leg. "Let's not do this, okay? I know Natalia is alive. I didn't bring you here to torture you for information, so there's no need to try and pretend you don't know what I'm talking about." She patted his leg then, another light laugh escaping her lips. "And you can ignore me all you want, but that won't last for long. You're burning hot," she said, the hand on his face moving to lay flat against his fevered forehead, "and I heard you talking to _someone_. Soon enough you'll start singing like a bird."

"What do you want?" Clint managed to ask, closing his eyes both at the flood of nausea in his mouth and the way everything around him looked so vivid and bright, hurting his head. His mind was just as much trained as his body, but Clint had been trained to resist manipulation or torture; there was nothing he could do against the drug in his system. Talking and arguing with his brother was one thing, but spilling his darkest secrets, everything about S.H.I.E.L.D. and Natasha, _wasn't_ an option. Barney was gone for now, but Clint knew he would come back; and when he did, who knew who else he'd bring along with him, and Clint wanted to be strong enough to resist and ignore all of them, but words were tumbling off of his mouth against his will. "I – I won't –" he started, but paused immediately, pressing his eyes tighter in a vain attempt to get a grip on his focus. He wouldn't _what_? He couldn't remember what he was about to say.

"Oh, but you _will_," Alexandra replied smoothly, and he felt her stand on her feet. "I've been there before, I know how you're feeling right now. Do yourself a favor and don't resist, Clint," she said, her tone almost gentle, almost sympathetic. "Things are getting confused in your head, you see people who aren't really there…You'll feel better if you just stop fighting it. You're not strong enough to fight this. You're just not."

Clint clenched his teeth, biting back his impulsive need to reply _Yes, I am_. He wasn't going to indulge the woman and give her the satisfaction of knowing she'd gotten to him. He'd learned to deal with physical pain and roll with the punches a long time ago, but Clint was well aware of his short temper when provoked or underestimated. His brother was partly to thank for it; Barney had always known which buttons to push, which words would hurt the most, and no matter how much Clint wished he could say he had never cared, he had – _still did_. It still hurt to think of the venom in Barney's mouth, all the hurtful words he'd thrown his way when he was the only family he had left, the one person who was supposed to be there for him unconditionally. But if he was honest with himself, Clint knew that he was responsible for the deterioration of their relationship, too. He'd said and done things he wasn't proud of, things he wished he could take back but had to live knowing he _couldn't_, and maybe this was his brain's way of punishing him, conjuring Barney so they'd be reunited for what appeared to be Clint's last moments, if what the woman had said was any indication. Once he'd start talking, once he told her what she wanted to hear, there was no way the Room or the KGB, whoever she was working for, would let him walk away. And if he didn't figure his way out soon, he _was_ going to die, arguing with someone who wasn't even really there.

"You promised you would always be there," a small voice said, and that voice he knew, could have recognized it anywhere even if he'd been seventeen the last time he saw her. Clint felt a shiver run down his spine, a thrill of cold that was a stark contrast to the burning fever he had felt before. It was as if his hallucinations followed his trail of thoughts; the mixed feelings he had towards his brother, the remorse and regrets about how things had ended between them, inevitably led him to the guilt he felt for leaving the one girl he'd been in love with and who had loved him back behind.

Slowly, he blinked his eyes open, and there she was, standing with her arms wrapped tightly around her chest, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears just like on the night he'd told her he had to go. Ariana had been strong, refusing to let the tears fall as he explained why he couldn't stay after what had happened between him and the man who'd taught him everything before betraying them all, but when Clint had finally said goodbye and walked away, he'd heard the strangled sobs escaping her mouth. He had kept walking, because he knew that if he turned around and saw her, saw the tears rolling down her cheeks, her lips trembling, her arms wrapped around her little frame in a vain attempt to calm herself down, he would have never been able to leave. He _had_ to, though. At least, it was what he'd kept telling himself for months – _years_, really – after leaving her.

"I'm so sorry," he said in a hoarse voice, and Clint knew it wasn't enough – could never be enough – but it was the only thing he could bring himself to utter. His thoughts were cluttered and his mouth dry, and it took a lot of efforts to keep his eyes open. "I didn't – I didn't want to –"

"Didn't want to _what_? Break her heart? Make another promise you knew you wouldn't keep?" Barney came into his focus, as if appearing out of thin air, and went to straddle the back of the chair like he'd done earlier, and his lips turned into a smirk as he took Ariana in – for some reason, she didn't seem to see him. "_That's_ how you remember her?" he asked, frowning a little. "Come on, little bro. You're dying, and you remember her in tears? What is _wrong_ with you? A hot piece of –"

"Shut the fuck up," Clint cut him off, and instinctively, he fought against the cuffs, the urge to punch Barney's stupid smirk off of his face making his blood race in his veins. He didn't just want to make him shut up; Clint wanted to _hurt_ him. He could take whatever Barney – ghost of hell past Barney, his brain or his conscience, whatever – threw at him, but he could never just sit there and listen as he talked about her like that. "I wanted…I asked her to come with me," he went on, even though he didn't owe his brother any explanation. "I wanted _us_ to –"

"Leave everybody behind?" Ariana said in that same strangled voice she'd used all those years ago when he'd first suggested they left the circus and ran away together. Her eyes widened, their pale blue reflecting the shock and fear and ache he'd felt radiating from her on that day, and Clint felt his heart constrict, the pain almost unbearable as he remembered every single excruciating detail. The way she'd flinched at his touch at first, angry and confused and scared, and then clung to him, willing herself to hold onto him with so much strength that nothing could possibly pull them apart. How small she'd looked in his arms as they snuggled in her tiny bed, and how he'd spent the night listening to her breathing, running his fingers through her soft blonde hair, willing himself to find peace in her when everything around him had fallen apart. How he had known, the next morning, that he _couldn't_, no matter how hard he tried. "It was my home – _our_ home," she went on, the first tear slipping at the corner of her eye. "They were our family!"

Barney snorted. "You go on about _me_ leaving _you_ behind when you asked her to do the same?" he asked, looking baffled. "You're such a hypocrite, baby bro."

"Family _doesn't_ beat you and leave you for dead," Clint countered, his eyes unfocused as he tried to hold his head and look Barney in the eye, refusing to be weak in front of him. He blinked a couple times, trying to water his eyes, hoping that his vision would be less blurry. It took him a minute to realize Ariana wasn't there anymore; but it wasn't until he was about to ask Barney where she'd left that he realized he was starting to think of the hallucinations as if they were real.

He also realized he'd been talking to them like they were. Getting angry at Barney, feeling his heart break upon hearing the tremor in Ariana's voice, those emotions were vivid and real – but it was all in his head. Barney was gone, Ariana was gone, but the pain was still there, the anger and the heartache, too, and if he didn't force himself to let go, he was going to drive himself crazy. "They're not here," Clint coached himself. "It's all in your head." He repeated it twice, three times, ten times maybe, until he was sure he knew the difference between real and not real. The pain he felt in his body was real: the sluggishness he had felt upon first waking up had turned into something sharper as the poison slowly took control. The fear was real, too; not for his life, at least, _not only_. Nothing could make him forget that the woman – what was her name again? – had threatened _Natasha_. He was only a means to an end in order to get to her.

Which meant he needed to get the hell away before she could be stupid enough to come looking for him.

Ignoring Barney and his stupid smirk as his older brother stared at him, quiet for once, Clint tried to focus long enough to assess the situation again. The clues, unfortunately, were rare. He had no idea how long it'd been since he'd placed the call for evacuation and left the cabin; all he remembered was unlocking the car and opening the door, and then slowly coming to, his brother the first thing he'd seen when he opened his eyes. Everything in between, or how long it'd been, was a blur. The moment he hadn't made it to the rallying point with Matthaüs Köhler, the extraction team had to have activated S.H.I.E.L.D.'s standard protocol for a missing agent, which meant that Coulson had to know something was wrong by now. Coulson had been his supervising officer when Clint joined S.H.I.E.L.D., the one training him, the first one treating him like he was worth something, and even if it'd been years since he was this young, lost kid the older man had taken under his wing, Clint knew he would always look out for him.

He only hoped Coulson wasn't stupid enough to have told Natasha.

"You know, if you hadn't left her, none of this shit would have happened," Barney said, breaking the silence in the room. His voice had this know-it-all undertone that used to rile Clint up so much when they were teens, Barney always looking down on him as if the three years he had on Clint made him so much smarter.

Clint ignored him. He didn't need a smartass hallucination to tell him that. In the beginning, he used to think about Ariana all the time; he'd found himself packing his few belongings, ready to leave and go find her, more times than he could count in the first year after he'd left the Carson Carnival. Even now, years later, he would sometimes lie in bed at night and wonder what her life had become, what their life together could have been if he'd just decided that love was more important than the anger and pang of betrayal he felt. It was pointless and unnecessary cruel, to dream of the what ifs and maybes, to live in that limbo in between wanting to go back and moving forward, embracing his new life at S.H.I.E.L.D., but Clint had learned how to push aside that feeling of longing he had whenever he thought of how nice it would be to have something, _someone_, in his life other than his job.

But then Natasha had barged into his life, or maybe he had barged into hers, and her loneliness had collided with his, and no matter how hard he tried to remember how to ignore that feeling, no matter how hard he tried to learn from his past mistakes, that caring and allowing someone in would end up breaking him, he just couldn't with her. There was just something about her. Then again, there had been something about Ariana, too. Something about the way her hand fit in his, the softness of her skin under his calloused hands, the sound of her giggles when she had started teaching him Polish and he stumbled on the words, his accent thick and rough at first before he picked on the subtleties of the language and pronunciation. Natasha had looked impressed – even if she'd tried very hard to hide it – when he picked on Russian easily, his accent flawless, close to hers as if he were a native. There were still things he didn't understand when she spoke, but Clint thought she'd left some out to be able to tease him, and the thought could have brought a smile to his face if smiling didn't hurt like hell.

Clint let out a sudden cry as pain ripped through his head, the pounding migraine he'd felt since waking up nothing in comparison. He felt like his brain was about to explode, and he bent his head and drew his knees as close as he could despite the thick rope around his legs, trying to hug himself in an attempt to calm down. He was burning hot one moment and icy cold the next, and occasional trembles wracked his body, enough to make him lose his focus on his own thoughts.

_Natasha_. Natasha was the one he was supposed to focus on right now.

"Did I make it that easy?" Ariana's voice said, and sure enough, when Clint lifted his head she was there, still hugging herself, her eyes puffy and red. He couldn't ignore her, even if she was nothing but a fragment of his imagination. "To walk in and out of my life?" she added. "You said you'd always be honest with me, Clint. You promised. Tell me."

"Yeah, tell her, Clint," Barney prompted, a perverse enjoyment in his tone and eyes as he got up and stood next to Ariana, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

"Don't touch her," Clint growled, once again fighting against his restraints, urged by the sheer hatred he felt towards Barney. "Don't you dare –"

"Yeah, right, 'cause you're _so_ in the position to make threats," Barney snorted, rolling his eyes as he stepped back, but not before tucking a stray curl behind Ariana's ear. "This is all in your head, baby bro. So _who_ are you really so angry at?" he asked, almost looking genuinely curious. "You can blame me all you want, but you _know_ that I'm not responsible for _this_. You left her. Your choice. So tell her," he pressed again. "Tell her why she wasn't worth it."

Clint pressed his lips in a thin line, refusing to speak. Barney wasn't real. He repeated it in his head three, four, ten times, his eyes still glaring at his brother until he disappeared. It seemed to be the only way to make the hallucinations go away, remind himself that they weren't real, that he needed to focus on the immediate threat, the woman who'd abducted him and wanted Natasha. Help had to be on its way, and all he needed to do was hold on until the team got there.

He could do it.

He wasn't going to die here.

"You're not real," he said to Ariana, the words catching in his throat as he swallowed hard. He paused as he saw fresh tears roll down her cheeks, and he hated himself for hurting her again; it took him a moment to remember that she wasn't real, that he couldn't hurt her anymore. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry for…for everything. But you're not real," he repeated, and the reality of it sank in as he watched her slowly fade away.

Finally alone, Clint took a deep breath, forcing himself to inhale and exhale softly, calmly, as he tried to gain control of his body and mind. Whatever the woman – Sarah? _No_, _Sasha_, she'd said her name was Sasha – had given him, it was strong and acting fast. How long had it been since he woke up, half an hour, maybe? And in the span of thirty minutes, the headache he'd first felt had turned into a pounding migraine, and the fever that had burned him up had dropped, leaving him shivering and exhausted, barely able to force himself to stay awake.

He was about to let go, give up and close his eyes again, when he heard her voice.

"You _have_ to fight," Natasha said firmly, and Clint swore he could feel her hands on his skin as she cupped his face, forcing him to look her in the eye. "Clint," she breathed, touching her forehead to his. "You don't give up. You don't leave me. You don't die."

Clint swallowed hard and coughed, his body lurching forward as he did. He was dehydrated, had been for a moment now as he'd tried to water his eyes earlier in vain. A sharp cramp spasmed through his stomach, bending him in two as he instinctively bent his knees and drew them closer to ward off the pain. Natasha, who'd been straddling him, her tiny body snugly wrapped around him, her warmth sinking into him, appeared at his side, her hands running in his hair and on his face, stroking, soothing him like a mother with a child. "You promised," she said angrily, such a stark contrast to the gentleness of her touch, and Clint wanted to say something, to apologize for being too stupid and getting caught, for making another promise he wouldn't be around to keep, but he couldn't articulate his thoughts, couldn't make his brain order his mouth to move and form the words. His tongue felt like sandpaper, his mind was on a whirl, and all he could focus on was the feel of Natasha's hands on him.

It felt too good to force himself to remember it wasn't real.

It felt too good not to let himself surrender to the exhaustion he felt, and let the soothing caress of her fingers lull him to sleep again.

He didn't catch the tear rolling down imaginary Natasha's cheek when she felt him slip away.

* * *

Coulson was both angry and amazed.

He was angry for obvious reasons, one being the pain he felt in his jaw where Natasha had kicked him with her foot, and the bump he could feel forming at the back of his head as he'd dropped to the floor. It surprisingly was also the reason why he was amazed, and if he wasn't that angry, he would gladly go to the gym with Natasha and ask her to show him how she managed to throw her leg that high and knock somebody out cold with it. That was kind of cool, he had to admit it.

But he was too angry at how reckless and stupid she was to linger on that.

She was an idiot for going there alone, thinking she could, or _had_ to, do this on her own. They were a team, and Coulson had thought she'd learned the meaning of the word by now, being partnered up with Clint for months and showing a loyalty towards him that defied all of their expectations, Fury's, his, and Clint's, even if Clint might be the only one who didn't want anything from her, but it seemed that old habits were hard to kick. Natasha had been alone for so long she didn't know how to work with others, and only really relied on her own skills to get things done. She was independent in an almost pathological way, fencing everybody out, and though it sounded very noble on paper to be ready to face danger on her own and risk her life for Clint's, it was also the stupidest move ever. Didn't she realize Clint wasn't the only one they cared about here? Didn't she know she was one of them now? Didn't she know that _Clint_ would lose it if he knew what she was doing?

Sitting up, Coulson felt his head spinning a little, and the awe he'd felt for Natasha disappeared quickly. Once they were all safe and back home, he was putting her on stake-out duty for at least six months, or making her wear a GPS tracker around her ankle or something. It took him a minute to manage to stand up as he still felt dizzy, but he did so, and not wasting any more time, he jogged to his car, only to find that one of his tires was flattened – no, not just flattened, it had been sliced. _Natasha_. "Dammit," he sighed. Rounding the car, he opened the truck to fetch the spare tire and settled to the task of changing the flat tire. As he did, he started thinking again, trying to understand his agent's actions. If Clint were here he probably would get it – he was the only one who seemed to understand her, both of them seamlessly reading into each other's mind, silently communicating after just a few months working together as partners as if they'd known each other forever. But Clint wasn't here and Coulson needed to figure it out on his own.

Natasha had left her phone so he wouldn't be able to track her whereabouts, but she had only sliced one of his tires, giving him the chance to change it and still be able to go after her. _Why_? Why would she make the effort of making it look like she was playing along? That's when it struck Coulson, and he felt like an idiot for not understand it earlier. She'd done it for show. Natasha had said there had to be a camera somewhere, so Alexandra could watch them and know when Natasha would get there; and they'd gotten proof of that when she'd mentioned Natasha crying, meaning that there had to be at least one camera outside, where she'd had her breakdown. The team had gotten to the cabin before them, but they had focused on looking for Clint, for clues that might lead them to him, not necessarily searching the house; there could be a camera anywhere. And if Natasha had kicked him hard enough to delay him, she hadn't aimed to cause any real damage; she'd left her phone and flattened the tire to prove her good will. If she had really wanted to go off the grid, she would have made sure he couldn't follow her; knocking him out had just given her a little head start – it meant that Natasha wanted to be _found_. Maybe she wasn't that much of an idiot, after all.

Reaching for his phone, he dialed the secure line of the field team leader as he got into the driver's seat, starting the engine and driving off. "This is Agent Phillip Coulson, ID Sierra-Kilo-Juliet-0-8-Uniform-7-3-4-2," he spoke, and the call started pending.

"_Agent Coulson?_" a male voice said after a moment, belonging to field officer Ted Daniels. "_Anything new on Agent Barton?_" he asked.

"Yes and no," Coulson replied with a sigh, rolling his neck to soothe the ache as he drove down the hill to the main road. "We got a phone call from a Russian operative, former Red Room alum Alexandra Pavlenkova, probably KGB now, or taking contracts, I don't know. She has Agent Barton," he said, back to the point. "He's likely to have been drugged or poisoned."

Coulson heard the telltale sound of fingers on a keyboard on the other side of the line. "_I'm running S.H.I.E.L.D.'s database_, _see if we have anything on her. Calling in Tom from medical too to tell him, but without knowing what Barton's been drugged with, I don't know what he can do,_" Daniels said, leaving the implications of his words hanging. _Before it's too late_. "_What else?_"

"Agent Romanoff knows her. And she went after her." Skipping the details of how Natasha had knocked him out to do so, Coulson went on. "She agreed to meet Pavlenkova in an hour, and that was fifteen minutes ago," Coulson said after taking a look at his watch. "I need your team to split up and search every suspect location within a one-hour radius from the safe house, heading north. We're looking for a place where she could see somebody approach, or be able to install cameras. She specifically ordered Agent Romanoff to come alone."

"_So what do we do?_" Daniels asked, "_Sit tight until Romanoff comes back, if she does?_"

Coulson could hear the reluctance in the man's voice, but also the concern, and contrary to what Natasha seemed to believe, the worry they all felt extended to _her_, too. "Of course not," he replied firmly. "She left her phone here. I'm gonna try to access Barton's tracker, but I bet she deactivated it." He paused, sighing tiredly. "You and your team head north, but do not engage. Call in Tech, have them go through every cam in this country if needed. That woman has to appear somewhere. _Find her_."

"_Will do, sir_," Daniels replied. "_What about you? Do you need me to send an agent to pick you up?_" he asked, letting Coulson know he'd understood that Natasha had left without authorization.

Coulson almost laughed. "I'm good," he told Daniels. "I'm following a lead of my own. I'll keep you guys posted." The other man agreed, and Coulson hung up. He reached the main road and drove for a couple miles before finding an intersection. "Come on, Natasha," he muttered to himself, his eyes darting from left to right, looking for a clue. "Give me a damn sign."

Slowing down the car, almost coming to a halt, Coulson found the sign he was looking for in the shape of an arrow laying on the right side of the road.

Clint was going to be pissed – it was one of his special explosive ones.

"That's our girl," Coulson couldn't help but say as he turned right, grabbing his phone in his pocket to let the rest of the team know.

* * *

"_Pavlenkova!" their instructor, Anatoli Dmitriov, barked in that characteristic angry, scary growl that he always used when he addressed them._

_One of the girls stepped up obediently from the row, hands behind her back and feet stuck together in the formal stance they'd been taught, chin up and gaze hollow as she looked straight in front of her. "Yes, sir," she said, and paused, waiting for further instructions._

_The old man turned the pages of the file he was reading. "You eliminated the target," he started, "but would you say you did good?" he asked, looking up at the young girl, his dark eyes boring into hers._

_Alexandra stiffened, something that all the girls noticed, and so did Dmitriov. But she kept her cool, her voice calm and unwavering as she replied, "Yes, I did, sir," she stated firmly. "I didn't set off any motion sensor or alarm, and he didn't hear me coming. He didn't make a sound. He was dead before he knew it, and I got out without anyone noticing me."_

"_Is that so?" Dmitriov taunted. "Because I read here," he went on, dragging a long finger on the file, "that his son was there."_

"_He was sleeping in the bedroom, sir," Alexandra countered. "He didn't see me."_

"_And how do you know that? How can you be so sure?" the instructor pressed._

"_Because I would have seen him," Alexandra answered firmly. "Sir," she added quickly as Dmitriov stood up and walked to her. She held his gaze as he towered over her, arrogant and strong and stubborn all at once. She had done good, and Alexandra knew it. She was one of the best. _

_She couldn't help the small, low yelp, that escaped her mouth when he suddenly grabbed her raven hair and pulled hard, dragging her to a chair where he sat her forcefully. "Romanova," he barked again._

_Fourteen year-old Natalia stepped up from the row, adopting the same stance Alexandra had earlier. "Yes, sir," she replied._

"_What's rule number one?" he asked, pulling roughly at Alexandra's jaw to force her to look at the other girl._

"_Never leave a witness, sir," Natalia answered, her eyes never leaving her instructor's, never flicking down to look at the other girl._

"_Would you leave a witness, Romanova?" he pressed, his fingers tightening on Alexandra's jaw, hard enough to leave a bruise on her delicate, pale skin._

"_Never, sir," Natalia replied. Never again. Not after what he'd done to her the last and only time she had; Natalia had learned her lesson. _

_Anatoli Dmitriov smiled, one of these rare, proud smiles. "Will you teach Pavlenkova?" he asked, motioning to the set of tools on the table facing the chair._

_It was how he trained and taught them, choosing the best to punish the others for not being good enough. When they'd first trained for water torture, it had been Svetlana who had done best, and who'd then held a cloth over every other girl's mouth and nose, choking them until they could take it. After that, Natalia had always exceeded herself to be the best, and it meant that Dmitriov always chose her to teach an example._

"_Yes, sir," she agreed with a short nod, her eyes flicking down to Alexandra for the first time._

_There was no fear in the girl's green eyes; just sheer, unadulterated hatred. _

_Hatred was good._

_It made it easier for Natalia to not feel a thing when she closed the metal shackles around Alexandra's wrists._

Natasha shook her head. It would do no good, going on that trip on memory lane and remember everything that had happened between Sasha and her. They'd been raised and taught to hate each other, seeing in one another a threat and a rival, and never an ally or a partner. They could have done great on the field together, but it wasn't how the Room saw things.

_Trust no one._

_Never show any weakness._

_Take it or die._

She'd learned the principles, repeated them until she believed them, until she lived by them. And she'd been the best, not because she wanted the recognition, not because she was afraid of the punishment, but because she refused to be weak. Not again.

Sasha had paid the price, but so had Natasha. Clint was wrong when he said he could see the good in her – there was nothing left to save, and Natasha knew it. She was too far gone, and she was ready to pay the price for him today.

Exiting the car, Natasha took her surroundings in. The directions Sasha had given her had led her to a secluded warehouse that looked like it had been part of an old factory long ago, but that was the only thing left of it. She had thrown her last arrow out of the window a mile away, and she really hoped that Coulson would catch up with her plan. Then again, Natasha didn't know if she could call surrendering herself to Sasha a plan, but it was the only thing she had come up with in such short notice.

Natasha wasn't stupid or delusional. She knew that Sasha wanted one and only one thing: to see her dead, preferably at her own hands. She didn't hope of going home with Clint. But she hoped Coulson would get there fast and save him; Clint was a fighter, but Natasha knew too much about poison to underestimate its effects. And if it came down to her having to sacrifice herself in order to save him, she would do it in a heartbeat.

She wouldn't show any weakness.

She could take it.

She probably would die. But she _could_ take it.

Natasha watched closely around her as she made her way across the deserted factory. Two buildings looked on the verge of crumbling down, and Natasha's blood turned to ice in her veins. She imagined Clint being locked there, and it would be so easy for Sasha to press a button and have it explode in front of her very eyes, so easy and so like her. Sasha had always been something of a drama queen, go big or go home kind of girl, something that Natasha who was the exact opposite, subtle and calculated, abhorred.

Natasha pushed the heavy door leading inside, and here she was, her gun aimed at her head. "Talia," Sasha greeted, her voice adopting that smooth, seductive tone. "It's so nice to see you."

Natasha glared at her, but remained silent. She tried to examine the room without moving her eyes too much: there were stairs leading to the first floor on her left, and three doors on her right and behind Sasha – all the doors bore locks, and the windows were sealed with wood planks, allowing no light from the outside in. Sasha's green eyes, bright and cruel, were positively gleaming, thriving in the darkness.

"Weapons out," she ordered, and Natasha complied, slowly pulling her gun out of the waistband of her jeans and bending to place it on the ground. "Make it slide over here with your foot. Slowly. The knives, too," she added. "And don't think I don't know all of your hiding places, so give them all, or I'll shoot."

"The knife," Natasha echoed. "Is that how you recognized him?" she asked, thinking of the knife she'd given Clint in a silly gesture, as if it would ensure his safety to have a piece of her with him. It was part of the set of knives the girls were given at the Room, and Natasha had always treasured it. Her weapons were an extension of her, and though she could hold herself on her own, they made her even more deadly – she felt _whole_ with them.

Sasha laughed, her gun still aimed at Natasha as she bent to collect her weapons. "Come on, give me some credit, Talia," she chuckled. "We knew you had escaped with Hawkeye from the beginning. But I have to admit it was a very nice touch to find your knife in his boot. It's where you keep it, too, right?" she asked, knowing the answer perfectly well.

Natasha refused to give her the pleasure of answering.

"The General is not pleased, Tali," Sasha continued as she stashed Natasha's weapons and gun in the holsters of her black suit. "You must know that. He gave you everything, and that's how you thank him?" she added, the curiosity and shock perfectly feigned in her tone. If Natasha was good at lying, Sasha was, too, but also loved it. Faking everything had become second nature to her.

"He tortured us and brainwashed us so we would obey him," Natasha replied coolly, "I don't have anything to thank him for. Everything I have, I got it on my own."

Sasha rolled her eyes. "You've always been ungrateful."

"And you've always been arrogant," Natasha countered. "Where is he?" she asked then, forcing herself to stop reacting to Sasha's taunting and focus on Clint.

"The American?" Sasha teased, a smug grin stretching her lips. "He's handsome, I'll give you that. In that sort of rugged, surly, intense way. But come on, Tali," she exclaimed as her eyes widened, "_an American?_ I think that's what hurts the General the most. Of all countries, you had to choose America."

"Where is he?" Natasha asked again as she lazily crossed her arms over her chest, her voice calm and firm, everything she wasn't in that moment. All she wanted to do was hurt Sasha, in the most painful ways she'd been taught and learned over the years.

"Riddle me this," Sasha continued as if Natasha hadn't spoken. "Did he fuck you into defecting or was it the other way around?" she asked, and she sounded genuinely curious. "I actually can't decide which is worse. If he did, then you're an idiot, but _still_ a traitor. But if you did, then you're an idiot _and_ a traitor. Oh," she laughed, "you'll pay for it anyway, so who cares?"

Losing her patience, Natasha stepped forward until she was standing right in the other woman's personal space, the barrel of the gun pressing against her chest as Sasha watched her, unimpressed by her boldness. "Where is he?" she asked one last time.

Sasha seemed to gauge her forever, before she tilted her head to one of the doors. "He's still alive," she answered, "but not for long. Not if you don't do what I say."

"And what do you want?" Natasha asked. "And how do I know you will let him live if I do?"

Sasha laughed again. "You don't. I guess you'll just have to trust me."

"I don't," Natasha replied immediately.

"Good," Sasha said with a nod, the teasing gleam in her eyes turning into something much colder. "Trust is for idiots, and we're not idiots now, are we?" she asked. "The General is willing to let him live if you come back."

It was predictable, but it still made something inside of Natasha snap as she heard the words. It was her life for Clint's, and she surprised herself as she thought it; all her life, she'd been taught that it was her _against_ the world, but being with Clint, working at his side, had shown her that there was nothing she wouldn't do _for_ him. She was ready for this. "I want to see him first," Natasha said firmly.

Sasha opened her mouth to say something, but changed her mind and just gave her a nod. She gestured at Natasha to walk, and she threw a key to the floor. Natasha got to her knees to fetch it, and she took a deep breath before she put it in the lock, unsure she was ready for _this_, to see Clint on the verge of dying. But she had to. She couldn't leave without seeing him one last time, without making sure he was still alive, feel his pulse beneath her fingers, plead him to hold on just a little longer until Coulson got there.

Her heart skipped a beat when she saw him, his body slumped against the walls, his tied legs bent towards him as much as he could as he curled into a little ball, his teeth gritting with cold. She could see the bead of sweat on his forehead and neck, the pallor of his naturally healthy-tanned skin, and Natasha knew immediately that he didn't have much time left. She was familiar with poison, how it could affect somebody, how the sluggishness turned into terrible, unbearable pain, and she knew the toll it could take on body and mind if not treated quickly.

She reacted without thinking. Dropping to her knees at his side, she grabbed his face with her hands, not caring about Sasha anymore. Natasha didn't care if she enjoyed the show, if it amused her to see her defeated, to see she'd broken all the rules and allowed herself to care. She didn't care about anything but him. "Clint," she spoke, her voice hoarse as her throat closed on his name. She ran her hands on his face, her fingers soon slick with his sweat, begging him to come back to consciousness. "Clint, please. Open your eyes. Please." He did. She felt him stir, his eyes fluttering as if the effort was too much; Natasha knew it was, but he was alive, and it was all that mattered. "That's good, Clint. Come on, wake up. I'm here," she urged him quietly.

"Tash," he managed to utter, just a breathy murmur.

"Yes, yes," Natasha nodded, her curls bouncing as she did. "I'm here. You're gonna be okay, Clint." She cupped his jaw, her thumb stroking his cheek. "Help is on the way. Phil will be here soon, you just have to hang on, okay? Can you do that for me, darling?" she asked, the endearment slipping easily, because he was dear to her and this was the last time she'd ever see him and she wasn't ready for that and who cared if she was sentimental? She was going to lose him, she had the right to.

She heard Sasha snort, but she didn't care. But it seemed to do something to Clint, who suddenly looked panicked, his breathing frantic as his eyes shot wide open. "No, no!" he exclaimed, terrified, as he stared over her shoulder. "Don't…don't touch her," he panted heavily.

Natasha turned quickly, but Sasha hadn't moved. She was leaning against the doorframe, her gun still pointed at her, but no more of a threat than she'd been. Clint wasn't talking to her.

He was hallucinating.

"What did you give him?" she asked Sasha, feeling the anger and the fear all mixed together swelling in her chest.

Sasha shrugged. "Nothing that you and I couldn't handle," she said, arrogance back in her tone. "He's weak."

Natasha bit her tongue not to reply. "Give him the antidote and I'll go with you," she said.

Sasha shook her head. "You think I'm stupid? You're coming with me. Your precious American friends will be there soon, right?" she prompted. "Well, they can take care of him."

Natasha glared at her, knowing she couldn't argue, knowing she'd lost. She could handle herself against Sasha – against the General, against _anybody_ – but she couldn't leave until she was sure Clint would be okay.

"Don't," Clint murmured, panic edging in his voice again, and Natasha wondered if he was still aware of his surroundings, if he understood what was happening, or if he was still hallucinating. "Don't go," he pressed. "Don't…don't…I'll keep…," he rambled incoherently.

Natasha focused her attention on him again, and she knew in that moment she had no other choice. "Shhh," she soothed him, "I'm sorry," she apologized, and she was, she really was. She'd brought nothing but trouble to him and she wished she could take it back, that she could go back to that very first night and run just that little bit faster to escape him, or convince him to kill her. None of this would have happened then. "You're gonna be okay," she repeated, her fingers stroking his face one last time, memorizing him, before she let go and got on her feet. Turning to Sasha, she said, "I'll go with you."

Sasha smiled. "I knew you'd finally come to your senses," she said, her voice soft like honey.

And then the bullet pierced the air.

* * *

_to be continued_


End file.
